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ADVERTISEMENT 

^^A  Play  in  Four  Acts 


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ADVERTISEMENT 

A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


B7 

BASIL  MACDONALD  HASTINGS 


Copyright,  1915,  by  Samuel  Fsbnch,  Limited 

Entered  at  the  Library  of  Congress, 
Washington,  U.S.A. 


New  York 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Publisher 

28-30  WEST  38TH  STREET 


London 

SAMUEL   FRENCH,   Ltd 

26  Southampton  Stkeet 

STRAND 


OTHER  PLAYS   BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
"ADVERTISEMENT." 

15.  net  paper.    2s.  net  cloth. 

THE  NEW  SIN. 

LOVE— AND  WHAT  THEN? 

THE   TIDE. 


Dedicated  to 

John  E.  Vedrenne  and  Dennis  Eadie 

In  gratitude  for  their  sympathy 

and  encouragement. 


^  PERSONS  CONCERNED 

Luke  Sufan. 

Seton  Sufan. 

Ellen  Sufan. 

Rose  Appleyard. 

Randolph  Qualtrough,  of  "  The  Daily  Passenger.' 

WiLLOUGHBY  WooDS,  of  The  Woods  Billposting  Co. 

Bert  Pym,  of  The  Novelty  Advertising  Co. 

John   HEXT  )       r    r   i.       xy     t   je     n 

iL  ,,  \  of  John  Hext  &  Co. 

Duncan  Mudie  j 

Elsie  Makins. 

Adolf. 

Two  Reporters. 

A  Maidservant. 


SCENES 

Act  I.     (Before  the  War). 

The  Music  Room,  31a,  Arlington  Street. 

Act  II.     (During  the  War). 

Luke  Sufan's  City  Office. 

Act  III.     (After  the  War). 

The  Music  Room,  310,  Arlington  Street. 
(Some  years  elapse). 

Act  IV.     On  the  Leads  of  a  house  in  Hampstead. 
(Plans  of  the  scenes  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  this  book.) 


CAST 


This  Play  was  first  performed  under  the  management  of 
Messrs.  Vedrenne  and  Eadie  at  the  Kingsway  Theatre,  London, 
on  April  15,  1915,  with  the  following  cast: — 


Luke  Sufan 
Seton  Sufan 
Ellen  Sufan 
Rose  Appleyard 
Randolph  Qualtrough 

WiLLOUGHBY   WOODS 

Bert  Pym 

John  Hext 

Duncan  Mudie 

Elsie  Makins    . 

Adolf 

Two  Reporters 

Maidservant 


Mr.  Sydney  Valentine. 
Mr.  Alan  Fisher. 
Miss  Lilian  Braithwaite. 
Miss  Ellen  O'Malley. 
Mr.  Athol  Stewart. 
Mr.  Paul  Arthur. 
Mr.  Arthur  Chesney. 
Mr.  Charles  Daly. 
Mr.  Campbell  Gullan. 
Miss  Violet  Graham. 
Mr.  Leon  M.  Lion. 
Mr.  Harvey  Braban  and 
Mr.  Stewart  Dawson 
Miss  Janet  Ross. 


The  play  was  "  produced  "  by  Mr.  Sydney  Valentine. 


The  fee  for  the  representation  of  this  play  by 
Amateurs  is  Five  Guineas,  payable  in  advance  to 

Messrs.  Samuel  French,  Ltd. 

26,  Southampton  Street, 

Strand,  London, 

or  their  authorized  agents,  who  will  issue  a  written 
permission  for  the  performance  to  take  place.  No 
representation  may  be  given  unless  the  written  author- 
ity has  first  been  obtained. 

In  the  event  of  more  than  one  performance  being 
given,  the  Fee  for  the  second  representation  is  Four 
Guineas  and  for  the  third  and  further  representations. 
Three  Guineas.  But  this  reduction  only  apphes  when 
the  performances  are  Consecutive  (evening  following 
evening  or  evening  following  matinee)  at  the  Same 
Theatre  or  Hall. 

All  costumes,  wigs  and  properties  used  in  the  per- 
formance of  plays  contained  in  French's  Acting 
Edition  may  be  hired  or  purchased  reasonably  from 
Messrs.  Charles  H,  Fox,  Ltd.,  27,  Wellington 
Street,  Strand,  London. 


10 


ACT  I 

BEFORE  THE  WAR 

Scene. — The  Music  Room,  ^la,  Arlington  Street. 

The  room  is  very  tastefully  panelled  some  height  from 
the  floor,  the  wallpaper  above  being  a  deep  wedgwood 
blue.  The  floor  is  of  polished  pine  and  has  white 
and  bronze  blue  rugs  on  it.  The  only  door  is  in  the 
hack  wall  about  c.  Up  left  against  the  back  wall  is 
a  grand  piano.  To  the  right  of  it  is  the  piano  stool 
and  just  below  it  is  a  low,  backless  seat.  An  oval 
table  stands  centre.  Up  right  stands  a  pedestal 
bearing  a  graceful  statue  of  Pan  playing  his  pipe. 
Right  centre  above  fireplace  there  is  a  large  settee. 
Down  at  extreme  right  is  a  what-not.  The  fireplace 
is  in  the  right  wall.  Against  the  left  wall  stands 
a  small  table.  There  are  chairs  down  left  at  right 
angles  to  the  audience,  one  above  the  table,  one 
slightly  to  the  left  and  one  slightly  to  the  right  of  the 
table,  one  against  left  wall  and  a  cabinet  against  the 
back  wall  to  tite  right  of  the  door.  The  few  pictures  are 
gay  watercolour  sketches. 

{When  the  curtain  rises,  Seton  Sufan,  wearing 
evening  dress,  is  discovered  seated  on  the  couch  R.c. 
The  audience  see  his  face  in  profile.  He  is  reading 
the  front  page  of  "  Town  Topics."  He  is  a  tall,  slim 
good-looking  boy  of  exactly  twenty-one  years.  He 
hears  the  handle  of  the  door  move  and  he  hastily 
throws  the  paper  behind  the  couch.  Mrs.  Sufan 
enters.  She  is  a  tall,  wistfully  beautiful  woman  of 
about  forty-two  years.  She  wears  a  charming  evening 
11 


12  ADVERTISEMENT. 

gonfti  of  a  quiet  colour  and  only  slightly  decoUetee  as 
sh4  has  been  dining  with  imperfectly  bred  people.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  So  here  you  are.  Why  didn't  you 
stay  in  the  dining-room  ? 

Seton  {hoping  that  she  won't  see  the  pink  paper). 
Oh,  I  can't  stick  their  stories. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Bit  unhealthy  for  my  twenty-one 
year  old  athlete,  eh  ?  Don't  they  tell  naughty 
stories  at  Cambridge  ?  {She  sits  beside  him  on  the 
couch.) 

Seton.  Only  the  churchy  mob.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  to-night  ?  Where's  Miss  Appleyard  ? 
Couldn't  I  catch  a  late  train  back  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Seton  1  Want  to  leave  your  poor 
old  mother  already  ? 

Seton.  Oh,  mother,  don't  be  sentimental.  I 
kissed  you  this  morning,  didn't  I  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {smiling).  You  did,  Seton,  and  very 
nicely.    What's  the  hurry  to  get  back  ? 

Seton.  Well,  really,  mother,  you  must  see  it. 
This  crowd  are  enough  to  give  any  chap  the  pip. 
{He  rises  and  goes  up  c.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  didn't  expect  you'd  take  to  them. 
But  you  must  remember,  Seton,  that  they  are  your 
father's  business  friends.  A  man  after  money  can't 
pick  his  acquaintances. 

Seton.  But  why  have  them  on  my  twenty-first 
birthday  ?  I  thought  there  would  be  only  you  and 
the  pater  and  Miss  Appleyard  and  perhaps  a  nice 
girl  or  two.     {He  comes  down  to  her.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You're  a  scamp,  Seton.  You  haven't 
begun  to  think  of  girls  ? 

Seton  {chuckling).  Rather,  old  mother  !  Bags  of 'em. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  No,  really,  Seton.  {A  little  anxious.) 
Don't  tell  me  you  are  bothering  your  head  about 
that  sort  of  thing. 

Seton.  Great  Scott,  mother,  you  don't  mean  that 
I  oughtn't  to  kiss  them. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  13 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Oh  dear  no.  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
girls  exactly.     I  mean — creatures. 

Seton.  Mother,  you  are  frightfully  out  of  date. 
Chaps  don't  make  asses  of  themselves  that  way  now. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Oh,  don't  they  ? 

Seton.  No  fear.  You  either  make  love  to  a 
clinker  in  your  own  set  and  break  her  heart,  or  go  off 
your  rocker  about  a  married  woman. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Good  heavens  ! 

Seton.  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  do  either  yet, 
so  you  needn't  worry.  Where's  Miss  Appleyard  ? 
{Moving  restlessly  up  stage  again.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Do  you  want  to  kiss  her  ? 

Seton  {turning  round  sharply).  What  do  you 
think  she'd  say  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  She  might  forgive  you  on  your 
twenty-first  birthday. 

Seton.  She  was  all  over  that  journalist  chap  at 
dinner — ^what  was  his  name  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Randolph  Qualtrough  ? 

Seton.    He  seemed  a  decent  sort — ^the  only  one. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    He  is  a  gentleman. 

Seton.    How  old  is  Miss  Appleyard  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    She  must  be  thirty.    Why  ? 

Seton.    She  ought  to  get  married. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Seton,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  say 
anything  hke  that  to  her. 

Seton.    Why  not  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Well,  my  dear  boy,  Miss  Appleyard 
— er 

Seton.    WeU  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Well,  she  was  once  engaged  to  be 
married.  The  man  died.  She  was  rather  poor, 
She  then  came  to  me  as  my  companion.  It  must  be 
eight  or  nine  years  ago,  but  I'm  sure  she  has  not 
forgotten. 

Seton.  I  see.  I  might  have  made  an  awful  ninny 
of  myself. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    You  might.    And  besides,  Seton, 


14  ADVERTISEMENT. 

you  mustn't  go  about  advising  young  women  to  get 
married.  They  mightn't  Hke  it.  You're  hardly  old 
enough. 

Seton  {mimicking  her).  Not  old  enough.  Was 
the  old  mother  going  to  preach,  eh  ?  {He  comes  down 
close  behind  the  couch  and  pretends  to  tickle  her  and 
snatch  the  ornaments  from  her  hair.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Seton,  stop  that.  You  little  devil ! 
Stop  it,  I  say. 

He  stops  teasing  her  and,  with  his  right  arm  wound 
round  her  neck,  kisses  her  very  heartily.  The  door 
opens  and  admits  Miss  Appleyard.  She  is  a 
woman  of  about  thirty  years,  very  gracefully  built, 
very  pretty,  with  a  face  as  sweetly  white  as  a  sea- 
washed  pebble.  She  is  dressed  in  a  plain  black 
evening  gown  with  only  a  suggestion  of  decolletie.) 

Seton  {going  straight  up  to  her  at  the  door).  Miss 
Appleyard,  will  you  marry  me  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.  Yes.  Quick.  Come  along,  get 
your  hat. 

Seton.    Oh,  I  thought  you'd  refuse. 

Miss  Appleyard.  Now  I'll  sue  you  for  breach  of 
promise. 

Mrs.  Sufan  {rising  and  crossing  to  the  piano,  where 
she  sits  on  the  piano  stool).  Seton  had  quite  made  up 
his  mind  that  you  were  going  to  elope  with  Mr. 
Qualtrough.     {She  begins  to  play  a  romantic  air.) 

Miss  Appleyard.  Little  boy's  growing  up,  eh  ? 
Little  boy's  eyes  getting  bigger. 

Seton.  He  never  took  his  eyes  off  you  the  whole 
meal. 

Miss  Appleyard.  Do  you  know  why  ?  .  .  .  He's 
a  cannibal,  or  descended  from  cannibals.  He  said 
that  if  he  suddenly  attempted  to  eat  me  I  was  to 
remember  that  he  had  warned  me. 

Seton.  That  sounds  pretty  fervent.  Still,  sweets 
are  frightfully  indigestible.    Doesn't  he  know  that  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  10 

{He  slips  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  kisses  her  as  she 
comes  down  to  the  couch.) 

Miss  Apple  yard.  You  kissed  me  once  before. 
Do  you  remember,  Mrs.  Sufan  ?  It  was  on  the  first 
day  I  came  here  and  his  mouth  was  all  sticky  with 
toffee. 

Seton.  That's  right.  Rot  me  because  I  was  once 
a  kid.  I  only  kiss  you  now  because  you're  the  only 
girl  on  hand. 

Miss  Apple  yard  .  I  'm  perfectly  well  aware  of  that . 
{She  sits  on  the  couch.) 

Seton  {moving  restlessly  about).  Look  here,  what 
are  we  going  to  do  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {speaking  as  she  plays).  We  are  going 
to  be  perfectly  polite  people,  Seton,  and  sit  and  listen 
to  your  father  and  his  guests. 

Seton.  Listen  to  them  jawing  about  hoardings 
and  unsohcited  testimonials  and  best  results  and  all 
that  rot.    Not  for  me. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Seton,  this  is  your  birthday  party. 
You  must  put  up  with  a  little  inconvenience. 

Miss  Apple  yard.  You  must  be  a  good  boy,  speak 
only  when  you're  spoken  to  and  be  content  with  kiss- 
ing old  maids. 

Seton.  It's  sickening.  {To  Miss  Appleyard.) 
Can't  you  and  I  go  to  the  billiard  room  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.  It's  more  than  my  reputation's 
worth. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Sit  down  and  hold  her  hand,  Seton, 
while  I  play  to  you. 

(Seton  sits  close  to  Miss  Appleyard  on  the  couch 
and  leans  his  head  on  the  back.  Miss  Appleyard 
strokes  his  curly  hair.) 

Seton  {when  after  a  few  seconds  the  music  stops). 
This  is  all  right.     Go  on,  mother. 

(Mrs.    Sufan    laughs    and    resumes    playing.) 

What  is  that  tune,  mother  ? 


Ifl  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mrs^Sufan.    Something  your  father  used  to  play. 

{The  door  opens  and  admits  Adolf,  the  butler.  He  is  a 
dark,  eely,  sinister  German-Swiss,  fifty-seven  years 
of  age,  though  looking  younger.  His  black  hair  is 
very  scanty  and  streaky.  He  is  obviously  of  Semitic 
origin.  He  carries  a  tray  on  which  is  a  large  leather 
casket  smelling  of  a  jeweller's  shop.  Smilingly  he 
places  the  casket  on  the  table.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.    What  is  it,  Adolf  ? 

Adolf  {who  speaks  with  a  suspicion  of  a  foreign 
accent).  I  can't  say,  madam.  The  master  told  me 
to  place  it  in  this  precise  position. 

{He  smilingly  retires.) 

Seton  i^oing  to  table  and  examining  case).  What 
a  nasty,  greasy  smile  that  beggar's  got.  Why  doesn't 
dad  get  rid  of  him  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Get  rid  of  Adolf  1  I  wish  he  could, 
but  you  might  just  as  well  ask  him  to  cut  off  his 
right  hand. 

Seton.    Nasty  foreign  brute  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.  They  were  friends  thirty  years  ago. 
Adolf  is  now  your  father's  butler.  They  are  still 
friends,  though  I'm  sure  the  old  wretch  would  sooner 
murder  me  than  serve  me. 

Seton.  Dad's  tastes  are  really  the  limit.  I  say 
{in  reference  to  the  case  he  handles),  it's  a  jeweller's 
box,  isn't  it  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Don't  say  you've  bought  your  poor 
old  mother  a  tiara,  Seton. 

Seton.    I  don't  know  an5^hing  about  it. 

Miss  Appleyard.    Who  has  a  birthday  ? 

Seton.    Oh  Lord  !    Not  another  present ! 

Miss  Appleyard.    Poor  martyr  ! 

Seton.  But  you've  all  given  me  one,  even  the 
servants.    Whom  can  it  be  from  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  How  if  it  were  a  present  from  your 
father's  guests  to-night  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  17 

Seton.    Oh,  my  hat  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan  {who  is  still  playing  softly) .  The  gentle- 
men who  you  said  "  gave  you  the  pip." 

Miss  Appleyard.  And  to  whom  you  were  so  very, 
very  haughty  during  dinner. 

Seton.  Can  it  really  be  from  them  ?  I  shall  feel 
a  mean  swab.    What  on  earth  can  it  be,  anyway  ? 

[The  door  opens  and  Seton  drops  the  case  as  if  it  were 
a  hot  coal,  hurriedly  resuming  his  seat  by  Miss  Apple- 
yard.  Randolph  Qualtrough  enters,  carrying 
a  hook.  A  man  of  about  32  years  of  age,  he  stands 
over  six  feet  and  has  a  striking  rather  than  a  handsome 
appearance  in  evening  dress.  He  speaks  very  softly, 
as  is  the  way  with  giants.  He  leaves  the  door  open 
behind  him  and  comes  smilingly  down  to  Miss  Apple- 
yard,  He  places  one  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  couch 
and  leans  over  her.) 

Qualtrough.  You  were  quite  right.  It  goes: 
"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty — that  is  all  ye  know 
on  earth  and  all  ye  need  to  know."  {He  shows  her 
the  lines  in  the  volume  of  Keats  which  he  carries.) 

Mrs.   Sufan    [still  playing).    Seton ! 

Seton  [rising  reluctantly).     Yes,  mother  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Come  and  turn  over  this  page  for  me. 

(Seton  crosses  to  her  and  Qualtrough  takes  his 
place  on  the  couch.) 

Miss  Appleyard.  I  thought  I  was  right.  And  I 
love  to  catch  anyone  out  in  a  quotation.  It  makes 
me  feel  so  clear-headed. 

(Seton  has  turned  and  is  about  to  go  again  to  the  couch 
when  he  sees  that  Qualtrough  has  taken  his  place. 
He  stops  still,  speechless  with  disgust,  glares  at 
Qualtrough  and  tJien  turns  to  his  mother.  Mrs. 
Sufan  smiles  mischievously,  and  he  seats  himself 
impulsively  on  the  little  seat  below  the  piano,  crosses 
his  legs  and  thrusts  his  hands  in  his  trouser  pockets . 


18  ADVERTISEMENT. 

WiLLOUGHBY  WooDS  and  Duncan  Mudie,  both  in 
evening  dress,  enter.  Woods  is  a  tall,  clean-shaven, 
slighUy  ruddy,  middle-aged  man.  He  is  an  Ameri- 
can, and  this  is  obvious  from  his  way  of  speaking. 
He  is  a  very  keen  man  of  business,  but  there  is 
decidedly  a  whiff  of  the  open  air  about  him.  Duncan 
Mudie  is  a  short,  broad,  good-looking  Scot  of  about 
35.  He  wears  a  dark  moustache,  his  complexion 
is  very  clear  and  his  eyes  bright.  He  alone,  of 
Sufan's  guests,  is  not  altogether  happy  in  his 
environment,  but  he  is  always  bright  and  smiling. 
He  would  feel  easier  if  some  one  asked  him  to  sing, 
though,  oddly  enough,  he  has  no  voice.  Woods 
enters  first  and  walks  down  easily  to  Miss  Appleyard, 
Mudie  looks  brightly  round  and  then  moves  to  the 
left,  leaning  against  the  hollow  of  the  grand  piano.) 

Woods.  I  hope  you  properly  felt  the  agony  of 
separation  from  us,  Miss  Appleyard. 

Miss  Appleyard.  I  did,  Mr.  Woods.  I  would 
have  thrown  myself  off  the  balcony  into  Arlington 
Street  if  you  had  been  a  minute  longer. 

QuALTROUGH  {with  lazy  interest).  Has  there  ever 
been  a  suicide  of  that  sort  in  tliis  street  ?  When  I 
was  a  junior  reporter,  I  used  positively  to  live  on 
suicides.  If  anyone  jumped  off  a  balcony  on  Mon- 
day it  always  meant  five  shillings  extra  for  me  on 
Saturday.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  earned  anything 
out  of  Arhngton  Street. 

{^hile  QuALTROUGH  is  speaking  Bert  Pym  enters. 
He  is  very  short  and  pittmp,  like  a  robin.  He  is 
neatly  and  smartly  dressed,  though  the  buttons  of  his 
dress  waistcoat  are  not  quite  what  they  should  be. 
He  has  a  well-trimmed  little  moustache  and  his  eyes 
are  bright.  Immediately  he  enters  the  audience 
recognize  a  humorist.  Thus  now  he  makes  a  bow 
and  then  repeats  it  to  all  in  the  room  as  if  he  were 
giving  an  imitation  of  an  actor  called  before  the 
curtain.    Now  he  improvises   an  imitation   of   a 


ADVERTISEMENT.  19 

juggler  throwing  up  balls  and  catching  them  behind 
his  back  and  finishes  quite  a  miniature  entertainment 
by  producing  a  coin,  affecting  to  swallow  it  and  then 
recovering  it  from  his  sleeve.  Again  he  bows  all 
round  amid  genuine  amusement.  A  great  boy, 
Bert  Pym.  The  soul  of  humour.  Thus  sometimes 
one  might  see  him  amusing  the  company  by  affecting 
to  be  lame,  dragging  one  leg  after  the  other.  Anon 
he  may  execute  a  step  dance  or  convulse  one  by 
patting  his  hat  after  the  manner  of  a  celebrated  music 
hall  comedian.) 

Pym.  Missed  my  vocation,  didn't  I,  Miss  Apple- 
yard  ? 

Seton.  I  wish  you'd  show  me  how  you  do  that 
coin  trick,  Mr.  Pym. 

Pym.  Perfectly  simple,  dear  boy.  {He  com»s 
to  him  and  repeats  the  trick.) 

Miss  Appleyard  {quietly  to  Qualtrough). 
Quaint  little  chap,  isn't  he  ? 

Qualtrough.  He's  worse  than  quaint.  He's 
entertaining.  I  have  an  awful  presentiment  that 
before  the  evening  is  out  he  will  scratch  himself 
with  the  object  of  representing  a  monkey.  You 
know  the  sort  of  thing. 

Miss  Appleyard.  Oh,  very  well.  I've  been 
expecting  him  all  the  evening  to  give  an  imitation 
of  Sir  Herbert  Tree. 

(John  Hext  enters,  followed  by  Luke  Sufan.  Hext 
is  a  tall  old  man,  slightly  stooping,  with  round 
shoulders.  His  hair  is  scanty  and  his  moustache 
white.  He  is  inclined  to  mumble  when  he  talks. 
Luke  Sufan  is  a  big,  burly,  handsome  man  of  fifty. 
He  wears  a  short  beard  and  moustache.  ("  Thou 
shall  not  destroy  the  corners  of  thy  beard." — Lev. 
xix.  27.  Jews  clip  the  hair  of  the  head  with  scis- 
sors. A  razor  is  not  employed,  and  shaving  is 
avoided.)  A  slight  prominence  of  nose  and  a  violent 
ruddiness  of  lip  indicates  his  Jewish  extraction. 


20  ADVERTISEMENT. 

He  looks  exceedingly  well  in  evening  dress,  though 
one  deplores  the  searchlight  diamonds  in  his  shirt 
front  and  on  his  left  hand.  He  is  just  now  in  excel- 
lent spirits,  though  they  are  clearly,  to  a  keen  observer, 
of  the  post-liqueur  order.) 

SuFAN  {as  he  enters  with  his  hand  on  Hext's  shotd- 
der).  Just  what  I  say,  bonny,  just  what  I  say. 
Life's  the  funniest  thing  in  this  world,  absolutely. 

(Woods  walks  up  to  meet  him.    Hext  seats  himself 
on  chair  left  of  table.) 

Well   (^0  Woods),   bonny,  any  complaints  ?    Why 
aren't  you  smoking  ?    Adolf 

(Adolf  has  followed  his  master  into  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  after  him.) 

Bring    the    cigars.     You     know    the    ones.     (To 
Woods  again  after  Adolf's  exit.)    I  must  tell  you. 

Old  Johnny  Hext 

Hext.    Not  so  much  of  the  "  old,"  Sufan. 

(Bert  Pym  drops  down  into  the  easy  chair  down  left.) 

Sufan  {laughing).  Young  Johnny  Hext  has  been 
trying  to  tell  me  a  story  all  the  evening.  He  says 
you  wouldn't  let  him  get  in  a  word  edgeways.  Well, 
he  stopped  behind  just  now  to  give  it  to  me,  and 
bothered  if  it  isn't  the  best  I've  heard  for  years. 

Hext.  Humbug.  Little  pecuUar,  that's  all, 
Miss  Appleyard.    Loss  of  memory. 

Sufan.    Well,  this  is  it.    Old  Johnny 

Hext  {with  emphasis).    Not — so — very — old. 

Sufan.  He's  afraid  of  his  wife.  That's  the  first 
point. 

Hext.    I  said  nothing  of  the  sort.    What  I 

Sufan.  Now,  you  keep  quiet.  Johnny  was 
very  late  the  other  night,  one  o'clock  or  some  dread- 
ful time.  Not  wishing  to  disturb  his  wife's  slumbers 
— ahem — ^he  took  his  boots  off  in  the  hall 


ADVERTISEMENT.  21 

Hext.    An  absolute  fabrication,  Miss  Appleyard. 

SuFAN.  — and — when  he  reached  the  bedroom, 
undressed  very  quietly  indeed.  His  wife  didn't 
stir,  and  he  sneaked  into  bed  finally  without  waking 
her  up.  It  was  the  first  time  such  a  thing  had  ever 
happened,  and  old  Johnny  was  all  the  more  surprised 
because  he  had  dropped  one  of  his  boots.  He  was 
so  puzzled  that  he  thought  she  must  be  shamming. 
So  he  turned  round  to  tap  her  on  the  shoulder.  Then 
he  remembered  that  she'd  gone  away  for  a  fortnight 
that  morning. 

{He  roars  with  laughter  and  the  others  join  in,  hut  not 
so  noisily.  Woods  sits  on  right  of  table.  Seton 
laughs  shrilly  a  good  deal  later  than  the  other  men. 
Adolf  re-enters  with  the  cigars.) 

Seton.    That's  not  bad.    I  must  remember  that. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  What  is  the  interesting  casket  on 
the  table,  Luke  ? 

Sufan.  Eh  ?  Ha,  ha !  You  must  ask  our 
guests  about  that.    Pass  the  cigars  round,  Adolf. 

Woods  {rising  and  speaking  slowly  hut  with  a 
gathering  assurance).  Well,  Mrs.  Sufan,  with  your 
husband's  consent,  we  have  been  permitted  to  do 
— ^to  show  in  some  way  our  interest,  I  might  say  our 
friendship  for  him  by  remembering  in  some  small 
way  the  twenty-first  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  his 
son. 

Sufan.  That's  it,  my  bonny  boy.  Wait  a  bit 
till  they've  all  got  something  to  smoke.  {He  is 
anxious  that  the  thing  should  he  done  with  reasonahle 
ceremony.) 

(Woods,  thus  interrupted,  does  not  know  whether  to 
sit  down  for  a  while  or  remain  standing.  Finally 
he  sits  down.  All  take  cigars  from  Adolf,  who 
places  the  hox  on  the  table  before  retiring.) 

Where's  Mudie  ? 


22  ADVERTISEMENT. 

{He  looks  round  and  discovers  thai  young  man  still 
leaning  meekly  against  the  piano.) 

Get  a  chair,  Mudie.    Make  yourself  at  home. 

MuDiE  {who  does  not  relish  attention  being  drawn 
to  him).    That's  all  right.     I'll  just  sit  here. 

{He  speaks  in  a  soft  Scottish  accent.  The  seat  he 
chooses  is  on  a  chair  against  the  left  wall,  quite 
close  to  where  he  is  standing.) 

SuFAN.  Oh,  not  there,  bonny,  not  there.  Come 
and  sit  where  we  can  all  see  you. 

Pym  {imitating  a  Scottish  accent  very  vilely).  Come 
into  the  body  of  the  kirk. 

(Mudie  self-consciously  brings  his  chair  down  and 
places  it  midway  between  those  of  Woods  and  Pym.) 

SuFAN.  That's  better,  bonny,  that's  better. 
(SuFAN  sits  above  table  c.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Now,  Mr.  Woods,  do  put  the  poor 

boy  out  of  his — er Seton,  you'll  have  to  make 

a  speech  later. 

Woods.  Well,  Mrs.  Sufan,  it  has  not  been  our 
pleasure  to  meet  you  or  your  son  before  this  even- 
ing, but  I  may  say  we  all  have  been  very  closely 
associated  with  your  husband  ^ince  he  started  that 
great  commercial  proposition  that  is  now  so  well 
known  and — er — so 

Pym.    And  so  forth  ! 

Woods.  Well,  Mr.  Pym  is  justified  in  drawing 
attention  to  my  halting  eloquence.  I'm  sure  he 
could  give  you  a  flow  of  oratory  that  would  put  Daniel 
Webster  back  in  short  pants. 

{Laughter  from  Pym,  who  smacks  his  knees.) 

This  speech  should  have  been  made  by  my  friend 
Arthur  Logansport  Hartman,  whose  name  is  every- 
where respected  in  the  advertising  world,  but  un- 
fortunately, though  he  is  a  subscriber  to  the  tribute 


ADVERTISEMENT.  JK 

on  the  table,  he  was  unable  to  be  present.  He  then 
asked  me  to  make  the  presentation.  I  answered 
"  no  "  with  a  capital  N  and  he  replied  "  Punk,"  so 
there  was  nothing  else  for  it.  He  properly  rung 
in  a  cold  deck  on  me  as  we  say  in  America.  Well, 
I  can  say  I'm  glad,  real  glad,  to  be  here  and  be 
associated  with  this — er — ^with  this  tribute.  I've 
known  Luke  Sufan  a  good  many  years  now  and  all 
I  can  say  is  that  I  hope  the  son  will  grow  up  like 
his  father.  A  twenty-first  birthday  is  a  landmark 
in  one's  Ufe,  a  time  for  resolutions  and  a  time  for — 
er — consideration.  It's  well  that  the  practice  of 
gifts  should  mark  it  because  that  practice  helps  the 
receiver  to  realize  the  significance  of  the — er 

Hext.    That's  enough,  Woodsey. 

Woods.  Well,  maybe  I'm  getting  too  far  into 
the  deep  stuff.  But  I  do  want  to  emphasize  our 
pleasure  in  meeting  Mrs.  Sufan  and  her  son.  I  see 
from  Who's  Who  this  morning  that  our  host  and 
hostess  celebrate  their  silver  wedding  next  year. 

Sufan.    What's  that  ? 

Woods.  I  say  I  see  that  you  celebrate  your 
silver  wedding  next  year. 

Sufan.  Yes,  yes.  But  where  did  you  say  you 
saw  it  ? 

Woods.  I  saw  it  from  the  date  of  your  marriage 
in  Who's  Who. 

Sufan  (excitedly).  In  Who's  Who.  Do  you  hear 
that  ?  In  Who's  Who.  Now  that's  a  funny  thing. 
I  sent  them  all  the  details  so  that  they  shouldn't 
have  the  trouble  of  asking  me,  but  I  didn't  know 
I  was  in.  {To  Woods)  Just  ring  that  bell  behind 
you,  bonny.    We  must  have  a  look  at  this. 

(Woods  presses  the  bell-push  by  the  side  of  the  fire- 
place and  remains  in  front  of  the  fire.) 

Who's  Who,  eh  ?  We  are  getting  on.  How  long 
was  it,  Woodsey  ?    Have  they 


U  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  My  dear  Luke,  do  let  Mr.  Woods 
finish  his  speech. 

Sufan.  I'm  sorry,  I'm  sorry.  That's  right. 
You  go  on,  bonny,  you  go  on. 

Woods.  Well,  I  was  remarking  that  next  year 
you  and  your  good  wife  would  be  celebrating  your 
silver  wedding.  It  may  or  may  not  be  the  privilege 
of  all  of  us  here  to-night  to  be  near  enough  to  you  on 
that  occasion  to  personally  congratulate  you 

Qu ALTHOUGH  {soUo  vocc).  — ^personally  to  con- 
gratulate  

Woods.  — but  I  may  say  right  here  and  now 
that  the  fortunes  of  your  family 

(Adolf  enters  quietly  and  stands  by  the  door.) 

Sufan.  Ah,  Adolf,  I  want  you  to  send  some  one 
out  at  once  to  get  a  copy  of  Who's  Who.  You  know 
the  book,  don't  you  ? 

Adolf.  Yes,  sir.  Rather  difficult  to  get  it  at 
this  time  of  night,  sir. 

Sufan.  M'yes.  But  it's  sure  to  be  on  sale  at  a 
railway  bookstall.  {He  feels  in  his  pocket.)  Seven 
and  sixpence,  isn't  it  ? 

Hext.    Fifteen  shiUings,  young  fellow. 

Sufan.  Oh !  Fifteen  shillings !  .  .  .  I  know. 
Mr.  Trappes  at  Number  19  is  sure  to  have  one.  Take 
him  my  compliments,  Adolf,  and  ask  him  if  he'll 
be  good  enough  to  lend  me  his  Who's  Who  for  an 
hour  or  so. 

Adolf.    Yes,  sir 

{Exit  Adolf.) 

Sufan.  Come  on  again,  bonjiy.  You're  making 
this  oration  under  difficulties. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You  ought  to  be  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  yourself,  Luke. 

Sufan.    Woodsey  doesn't  mind,  do  you  ? 

Woods  {coming  to  table).  Don't  you  sympathize 
with  me,  Mrs.  Sufan.    I'm  always  sorry  for  those  who 


ADVERTISEMENT.  25 

have  to  listen  to  me.  Anyway  it's  all  over  now. 
I'll  just  ask  Mr.  Seton  Sufan  to  accept  this  tribute 
from  his  father's  friends  and  congratulate  him  on 
attaining  his  majority. 

{He  opens  the  casket  and  produces  a  large  silver  loving 
cup,  rendered  a  monstrosity  by  its  gilded  handles. 
A  murmur  of  simulated  admiration  comes  from 
Mrs.  Sufan.  Seton  stares  at  it  as  if  it  frightened 
him.    He  rises  and  takes  it  awkwardly.) 

Seton.  It's  awfully  good  of  you.  Terrific  sort 
of  pot,  isn't  it,  terrific  ?  You  are  good.  It's  really 
swagger,  isn't  it  ?  Thanks  awfully,  Mr.  Woods. 
{He  shakes  Woods'  hand  and  then  makes  an  impulsive 
dash  behind  Sufan's  chair  and  shakes  hands  with 
Hext.)  And  you,  Mr.  Hext.  {He  shakes  Hext's 
hand.)    And  you,  Mr.  Qualtrough. 

QuALTROUGH.  Well,  Mr.  Sufan,  you  must  not 
include  me.     I  was  not  given  an  opportunity  of 

Sufan.  No,  Seton,  Qualtrough's  not  in  this. 
But  he's  going  to  put  it  in  the  Daily  Passenger. 

Qualtrough  {sharply).    Eh  ? 

Seton.  Oh  Lord !  Oh,  yes.  Thanks  awfully. 
{Crosses  to  Mudie.)  And  thank  you,  Mr.  Mudie. 
{Shakes  hands  with  him.)  And  thank  you,  Mr.  Pym. 
{Shakes  hands  with  Pym.)  It's  an  awfully  fine  thing, 
isn't  it  ? 

Pvii  {with  sincerity).  Laddie,  it's  a  toff's  lot. 
It's  a  really  nice  ornament.  You  can  keep  that  all 
your  life.  It's  good  enough  for  any  sideboard.  In 
fact  you  could  put  it  anywhere  and  never  get  tired 
of  it.     It's  so  tasteful. 

Seton.  Yes.  It  would  create  a  sensation  at 
Cambridge.    Look,  mother. 

{He  passes  the  pot  to  his  mother,  who  examines  it  with 
well  affected  interest.) 

I  can't  make  a  speech,  father,  you  know.  But  it's 
very  sporting  of— er — ^these  sportsmen  to  give  me 


28  ADVERTISEMENT. 

this,  and  I  thank  them  very  much  indeed.  {He 
again  sits  on  the  small  seat  below  the  piano.) 

SuFAN  {rising).  Well,  of  course,  it's  only  natural 
that  the  lad  should  be  bashful.  I'm  sure  when  I 
was  his  age  I  could  have  talked  the  hind  leg  off  an 
elephant,  but  they  knock  that  sort  of  thing  out  of 
them  at  Cambridge.  Well,  my  bonny  boys,  it's 
a  pleasure  to  have  you  here  to-night.  When  I  look 
back  I  can't  help  thinking  life's  the  funniest  thing 
in  the  world.  It  really  is.  When  I  was  that  boy's 
age  I  was  trying  to  get  a  Hving  out  of  an  old  fiddle, 
drawing  "  one-one  "  for  a  night's  work  when  I  could 
get  it.  "  One-one."  And  very  often  not  more 
than  once  a  week.  And  did  you  notice  that  funny 
old  chap  who  waited  on  us  at  dinner  ?  Old  Adolf  ? 
He's  just  gone  for  the  Who's  Who.  Well,  bless  you, 
bonnies,  he  used  to  play  my  accompaniments.  Yes, 
and  now  he's  my  butler.  He  was  a  Soho  waiter 
then.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  hfe's  the  funniest  thing  in 
this  world.  Then  suddenly  I  strike  the  good  old 
Stajninal.  It  came  to  me  one  night  in  a  chemist's 
when  I  was  buying  twopennorth  of  toothache  tinc- 
ture after  playing  a  mazurka,  a  polonaise  and  two 
encores  at  an  Aldersgate  Street  banquet.  I  saw 
the  words  Seigel's  Syrup  on  a  card.  Seigel's  Syrup, 
says  I.  Why  not  Sufan's  Syrup  ?  What  for,  I 
thought  ?     Sufan's  for  Stamina  wasn't  a  bad  line. 

Hext.    That's  all  right.    Sufan's  for  stamina. 

SuFAN.  Stamina  !  Stamina  !  Stamina  !  I  thought 
the  word  out  for  three  days  and  three  nights,  and 
then  it  came  to  me.  Sufan's  Staminad  Syrup.  I 
got  the  chemist  to  mix  me  a  buck-up  paste  and  sold 
hundreds  of  bottles  out  of  an  eighteen  penny  "  ad." 
in  an  evening  paper.  And  now  all  the  world  knows 
it.  "You  need  suffer  no  more,"  "Cures  that  run- 
down feeling,"  "  Begin  to  get  right  to-day."  Thou- 
sands of  inches  of  space,  a  house  in  Arlington  Street, 
two  automobiles  and  a  boy  at  Cambrige.  My 
bonny  boys 


ADVERTISEMENT.  VI 

Mrs.  Sufan  {angrily).  What  has  all  this  to  do 
with  Seton's  birthday  ? 

Sufan.  You  must  let  me  talk.  I'm  coming  to 
something.  But  not  your  way  round.  Now,  bonnies, 
did  I  do  this  thing  all  out  on  my  own  ?  No.  I 
got  so  far,  but  I  could  get  no  farther.  Why  ?  I 
hadn't  the  brains,  to  get  beyond  a  certain  point, 
but  I  had  the  capital.  What  did  I  do  ?  I  bought 
the  brains,  your  brains.  And  in  a  few  years  Sufan 's 
Staminal  Syrup  was  the  premier  proprietary 
speciality  in  the  patent  medicine  market.  And 
you  did  it. 

{A   murmur  of  polite  dissent  from  the  well-pleased 
advertising  magnates.) 

Oh  yes,  you  did.  Mind  you,  I  paid.  There's  not 
a  single  firm  in  London  at  this  minute  spending 
more  on  advertising.     Is  that  right  ? 

{General  assent.  Seton  pricks  up  his  ears  and  begins 
to  look  suspicious.  Mrs.  Sufan  watches  her  son 
closely.) 

I  spend  the  money,  but  you  give  me  value,  and  so 
long  as  I  spend  I  reckon  you'll  keep  my  stuff  up  as 
the  best  seller. 

Woods.    You  can  bet  your  life  on  that,  Sufan. 

Sufan.  Well,  I've  had  you  boys  often  enough 
in  my  house,  but  I've  never  before  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  telling  you  before  my  family  how  grateful 
I  am  to  you.  My  wife  interrupted  me  just  now 
because  she  couldn't  see  the  drift  of  my  talk.  Well, 
here's  the  drift.  To-day  my  only  son  is  twenty-one. 
He's  a  good  lad.  He's  a  straight  lad,  {He  drops  into 
Yiddish.)  (He's  my  dearest  possession,  the  apple 
of  my  eye,  and  the  hope  of  my  years.)  Er  iz  mein 
tayerst  fermegcn,  dos  apple  fin  mein  oyg,  un  die 
hofnung  fin  meine  johren,  if  you'll  forgive  me  using 
the  old  tongue.  But  he's  started  life  with  a  big 
handicap.    He's  started  as  a  rich  man's  son,  and 


38  ADVERTISEMENT. 

the  son  of  a  rich  man  who  is  weak  and  fond  enough 
to  educate  him  right  above  his  father's  grade.  Let 
that  go.  The  thing  is  done  and  I've  no  regrets. 
But  to-night — on  this  most  important  day  of  his 
life — I  have  reminded  him  of  what  his  father  is,  of 
what  his  father  sprung  from. 

Seton.    Dad,  I've  never 

SuFAN.  Don't  say  anything,  Seton.  I  don't 
misunderstand  you.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  mis- 
understand what  has  occurred  to-night.  I  designed 
that  you  should  spend  this  evening  of  the  day  of 
your  coming  of  age  among  the  men  of  your  father's 
set.  You  ^^all  go  back  to  Cambridge  and  afterwards 
into  the  army,  and  you  will  always  keep  that  cup 
that  stands  beside  you.  You  will  keep  it  (he  speaks 
slowly  and  meaningly  to  Seton,  intending  to  convey 
anything  hut  what  he  is  actually  saying)  as  a  souvenir 
of  the  affection  and  good  wishes  of  the  men  who  made 
the  family  fortune. 

(Seton  winces.  He  does  not  understand.  His  father 
sits  down  quietly.  There  are  a  few  spasmodic  and 
not  quite  comfortable  "  Hear,  hear's.") 

Pym  {brightly).  The  oratory  now  being  over, 
do  we ?     {He  deals  cards  in  dumb  show.) 

Woods.  I  thought  the  proposition  was  that  we 
should  play  snooker.    Miss  Appleyard 

Miss  Appleyard.  Oh,  please  don't  bother  about 
me. 

QuALTROUGH.  But  you  said  that  you  would  like 
to  play. 

Miss  Appleyard.    Yes.    But 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Do  play,  my  dear,  if  you  want  to. 

Miss  Appleyard.  Oh,  thank  you  so  much,  Mrs. 
Sufan.    Come  on,  Mr.  Hext.    Only  a  penny  a  ball. 

{She  links  her  arm  in  Hext's  and  they  gaily  leave  the 
room.) 


ADVERTISEMENT.  S9 

(MuDiE  carefully  replaces  his  chair  against  the  wall 
and  follows  them  off.) 

Pym  (rising).  Well,  snooker  let  it  be.  {To 
Seton.)    Will  you  play  ? 

Seton.    Not  to-night,  thank  you. 

Pym.  Want  to  enjoy  some  music,  eh  ?  And 
very  nice  too.  All  my  family  are  fearfully  musical. 
Not  me.  Nanty !  Here !  Ever  heard  my  com- 
position ?  Little  tone-poem.  Excuse  me,  Mrs, 
Sufan.  {He  leans  over  the  piano.)  I  call  it  "  Nel- 
son's Column."  {He  runs  a  finger  the  full  length  of 
the  keys  from  base  to  treble.)  That's  the  column. 
{He  strikes  A,  the  highest  note  of  all.)  That's  Nelson. 
See  ?  The  whole  idea  is  two  movements.  No  time 
wasted. 

(Miss  Appleyard  reappears  at  the  door.) 

Miss  Appleyard.    Oh,  do  come  along.    It  will 
be  so  jolly  with  a  lot  pla3dng. 
Pym.    Ah,  she  summons  me ! 

(Miss  Appleyard  laughs  and  disappears.) 

(Woods  and  Qualtrough  rise,  but  Sufan  remains 
seated.) 

Beauty  calls.  {He  strides  dramatically  to  the  door, 
gesticulating  as  he  speaks.)  Farewell,  a  long  fare- 
well to  all  my  greatness.     'Tis  a  far,  far  better 

Woods.    Ah,  cut  it  out. 

(Woods  playfully  jostles  him  from  the  room,  following 
himself.) 

Sufan  {rising  and  coming  down  to  Qualtrough). 
You'll  get  that  little  paragraph  in,  won't  you,  Qual- 
trough.    {He  jingles  loose  silver  in  his  trousers  pocket.) 

Qualtrough.  I'll  try,  Mr.  Sufan.  But  you 
mustn't  forget  that 

Sufan.  Listen,  bonny.  I  spend  big  money 
with  your  paper.    I  take  a  full  page  once  a  month. 


30  ADVERTISEMENT. 

and  I've  got  space  in  every  blessed  issue.  You 
put  it  the  right  way  to  your  man.  Write  it  nice 
and  newsy.  You  know  the  sort  of  thing.  "  Mer- 
chant Prince's  Son  comes  of  Age.  Handsome  tribute 
from  well-known  city  men."  You  know.  Not  too 
much.  Just  a  name  or  two.  Mr.  Sufan,  so  well 
known  in  connection  with  the  famous  Staminal 
Syrup  and  all  that.  Hang  it.  I'm  in  Who's  Who. 
I  ought  to  be  good  enough  for  the  Daily  Passenger. 
Have  a  cigar  ?     {He  picks  up  the  box  from  the  table.) 

QUALTROUGH.  Thanks.  I  haven't  finished  this 
one, 

Sufan.  Never  mind.  Help  yourself.  Put  some 
in  your  pocket.    They're  all  right.    Go  on. 

(QuALTROUGH   reluctantly  takes   another  and  moves 
towards  the  door.) 

One  be  damned !  Take  a  handful.  Come  on, 
bonny.    They're  all  right,  I  tell  you. 

{Despairingly  Qualtrough  takes  a  few  more.) 

It  doesn't  matter  about  to-morrow  morning.  The 
next  day'll  do  so  long  as  it  gets  a  good  place. 

{They  are  walking  off  together.) 

You  put  it  to  your  man.  It's  sure  to  be  all  right. 
And  don't  forget  to  say  the  boy's  at  Cambridge. 
{He  turns  for  a  moment.)  Jesus,  ain't  it,  Seton  ? 
Yes.  He  won  the  two  hundred  yards  in  ten  seconds. 
There  was  a  picture  in  the 

{They  are  off.) 

Seton.  It's  horrible,  horrible,  horrible.  {He 
moves  across  the  room  and  sits  on  the  couch,  leaning 
forward,  his  head  in  his  hands.) 

Mrs.  Sufan  {coldly  as  if  with  an  effort  to  restrain 
herself).    Shall  we  play  piquet  ? 

Seton  {ignoring  the  question).  The  damned  hum- 
bugs !     {He  gets  up  and  strides  up  stage  and  down 


ADVERTISEMENT.  31 

again.)  My  canonized  aunt.  Just  look  at  it !  I 
ask  you. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Given  to  you  for  a  purpose,  Seton. 

Seton.    Yes.     "  As  a  souvenir  of  the  good  wishes 

and  affection  of  the  men  who "    Pah  !     I  feel 

as  if  I'd  swallowed  salt. 

Mrs.  Seton.    That  was  not  what  he  meant. 

Seton.    Then  why  didn't  he  say  what  he  meant  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  He  couldn't  without  offending  his 
guests. 

Seton.    Then  what  did  he  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  He  meant  that  he  would  Uke  you 
to  keep  the  cup  to  remind  you  of  {she  speaks  with 
difficulty)  your  breeding. 

Seton.  My  breeding !  Am  I  ever  Ukely  to 
forget  it  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You  might.  .  .  .  Boys  do.  .  .  . 
He  has  seen  that.     Oh  !     He  is  not  a  httle  wise. 

Seton.  Breeding  !  Do  you  know  what  they  call 
me  at  Cambridge  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    No. 

Seton.  And  unfortunately  I  can't  tell  you.  And 
if  you  get  a  nickname  at  Cambridge,  it  sticks.  All 
my  life  I  shall  be  "  Old  "  — well,  never  mind. 

MRSr  Sufan  {with  a  little  touch  of  concern).  Do 
you  mean  that  you  are  avoided,  snubbed,  looked 
down  upon  ? 

Seton.  Oh,  no.  My  double  blue  stopped  that. 
But  I  get  the  name  all  right.  I'm  supposed  to  laugh 
at  it. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Well,  can't  you? 

Seton.  I  can't.  I  hate  the  whole  vile  business. 
I'm  ashamed  of  it.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  I'm  ashamed  of 
him. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    I'm  afraid  he  knows  that. 

Seton.  I  can't  help  it.  Mother,  you  must 
realize  the  insult  of  this  wretched  present.  These 
vulgarians  have  been  screwed — yes,  screwed  to  buy 
that  hideous  thing.     "  Come  and  dine.    My  son's 


32  ADVERTISEMENT. 

twenty-first  birthday."    What  else  could  they  do  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Remember  that  they  were  probably 
glad  of  the  opportunity. 

Seton.  Of  course  they  were.  It  suited  their 
book  to  the  ground.  A  present  to  him  would  be  too 
obvious.  But  one  to  his  son — and  on  such  a  suitable 
occasion — just  the  thing.  Just  the  thing !  That's 
what  they'd  whisper  over  their  lunches.  Just  the 
thing  to  please  the  old  Yid — the  old  Yid,  mother. 
That's  how  they'd  speak  of  him. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    I  know,  I  know. 

Seton.  The  dirty,  hypocritical  gang.  For  two 
pins  I'd  smash  all  their  heads  with  their  own  beastly 
pot. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Seton,  you  have  no  sense  of  humour. 

Seton.  Sense  of  humour  !  Is  it  funny  to  be  made 
a  fool  of  ?  Father  may  laugh.  They  may  laugh. 
Can  I  laugh  too  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Try,  Seton.  When  the  Greeks 
sent  the  Trojans  a  wooden  horse,  I'm  sure  the  Tro- 
jans laughed  at  first.  That  big  wooden  horse  was 
just  as  funny  as  this  pot.  And  there  is  nothing  in 
the  pot  to  harm  you. 

Seton.  No,  mother.  But  is  it  always  to  be  like 
this  ?  {He  is  very  excited.)  Am  I  never  to  get  away 
from 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Gently,  Seton.  There's  a  dear  boy. 
You  are  going  into  the  army.  You  will  be  in  a  world 
of  your  choosing  then.  He  is  rich,  so  you  will  be 
rich.    You  must  not  complain. 

Seton.  I  know  that  I  oughtn't  to,  but  this  has 
been  inside  me  for  a  long  time  and  it  had  to  come  out. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Had  to  come  out  ?  What  had  to 
come  out  ? 

Seton.    What  I've  been  saying. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You've  said  nothing  that  I  haven't 
heard  you  say  before. 

Seton.    Eh  ?     Haven't  I  said  it  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    No.    What  is  it  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  33 

Seton.  Surely  I  said  it.  You  understood,  didn't 
you? 

Mrs.  Sufan.     I  may  have  understood. 

Seton  {after  a  pause).  Oh,  mother,  why  did  you 
marry  a  Jew  ? 

{There  must  be  no  suspicion  of  contempt  in  the  pro- 
nunciation of  this  word.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You  shouldn't  ask  me,  for  you 
know  that  I  can't  answer.  Twenty-two  years  ago 
I  was — I  hardly  remember  what  I  was  other  than 
eighteen  years  of  age.  He  was  handsome,  strong 
of  will,  artistic  and  ambitious.  He  appealed  to  me. 
I  never  thought  of  my  rehgion.  He  never  thought 
of  his.  He  is  far  more  religious  now  than  he  was 
when  I  married  him.  When  you  were  bom  he  agreed 
that  you  should  be  brought  up  as  a  Christian.  He 
didn't  seem  to  care.  But  I  think  he  cares  now. 
And,  do  you  know,  Seton,  that  in  those  days,  keen 
on  business  as  he  was,  he  had  a  soul  for  other  things 
— beautiful  things — and  especially  for  music.  He 
played  the  viohn  like  an  angel.  That  Httle  thing 
I  was  playing  just  now  was  his  favourite  air.  When 
you  were  a  baby  he  played  it  to  you.  Now  he  never 
touches  the  instrument.  He  cares  for  nothing  in  the 
wide  world  but  his  business — and  you. 

Seton.     I  wish  he  hated  me. 

Mrs.  Sufan  {miserably).    Oh,  Seton  !    Seton  ! 

Seton.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  the  feeling.  I  know  it's  unnatural.  But  there 
must  be  an  end  to  this  humbug.  I  can't  bear  his 
society.  I  can't  look  him  in  the  face.  My  eyes 
drop  when  I  have  to  speak  to  him.  It's  because — 
because  I  don't  like  him. 

Mrs.  Sufan  {speaking  wistfully  and  reminiscently) . 
He  is  quite  unhke  what  I  ever  pictured  he  would  be. 
The  greed  for  money  has  changed  his  body  as  well 
as  his  soul. 

Seton.    There  is  nothing  in  him  that  is  Uke  me. 


34  ADVERTISEMENT. 

There  is  nothing  in  me  that  is  like  him.  It's  extra- 
ordinary. He  stands  for  everything  that  I  would 
rather  avoid.  I  suppose  he's  a  great  commercial 
genius.  I  suppose  he's  an  awfully  good  man.  But 
mother,  mother  darHng,  I  have  something  from  you 
that  makes  me  hate  commercial  geniuses  and — 
awfully  good  people. 

Mrs.  Sufan  [with  a  suspicion  of  a  smile).  Seton, 
Seton  !     Is  all  the  bad  in  you  your  mother's  ? 

Seton  {putting  his  arms  round  her).  Mother, 
everything  in  me  is  yours. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Your  strength  !  Those  long  clever 
legs  that  let  you  run  away  from  all  the  others  ? 

Seton.  Oh,  hang  my  strength.  You're  as  tall 
as  I  am  anyway. 

{She  stands  up  beside  him.) 

Taller !  And  you  know  that  you  like  what  I  like 
and  hate  what  I  hate.  You  must  be  unhappy,  I 
am  away  long  enough  now.  Of  course  I  want  to  be 
away. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Yes.  You  can't  even  bear  him  for 
my  sake. 

Seton.  I  could,  but  I'm  selfish.  Soon  it  will  be 
worse  for  you.  I  shall  get  my  commission  and  you'll 
see  very  little  of  me.  Will  you  live  on  as  you're 
living  now  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  How  can  I  say  ?  .  .  .  And  you 
must  not  ask  me  such  a  question,  Seton. 

Seton.    You  don't  realize  that  I've  grown  up. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    I  don't,  I  don't. 

Seton.  You  ought  to  be  glad — glad  that  I  am 
old  enough  now  to  see  your  side,  to  sympathize  even 
if  I  can't  help. 

Mrs,  Sufan.  That's  good  hearing,  dear.  You're 
thinking  less  of  yourself. 

Seton.  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  My  mind's  made  up. 
I  have  my  plan  all  right. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    What  do  you  mean  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  36 

Seton.  I've  stood  all  I'm  going  to  stand.  I'm 
of  age  and  I'm  going  to  cut  free. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    What  mad  idea  is  that  ? 

Seton.  I  will  not  pretend  any  longer  to  an  affec- 
tion that  doesn't  exist.  I'm  going  to  have  an  honest 
row  and  end  it  all. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  End  it  all  ?  Do  you  mean  that 
you  wiU 

Seton.  He  shall  cut  me  off.  He  shall  drive  me 
out.    And  quite  justly  too. 

Mrs.  Sufan  [sternly).  Seton,  are  you  deUberately 
going  to  break  his  heart  ? 

Seton  [uneasily).  I  can  only  spare  him  if  I'm 
willing  to  play  the  humbug  for  the  rest  of  my  hfe. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  It  would  be  braver  to  play  the 
humbug. 

Seton.    As  you  do. 

Mrs.  Sufan  [hiding  her  tears).    That  is  brutal. 

Seton.  But  it  is  true.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you  only 
would  break  too. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  shall  not.  He  does  not  deserve 
it.  There  is  something  in  his  nature  that  you  know 
nothing  of,  a  sort  of  fanaticism  for  purity  that  uplifts 
him,  that  makes  me  afraid  and  respectful  when  I 
would  despise  him.  You  will  be  very  httle  in  his 
hands.  He  will  pour  into  your  ears  what  will  bum 
in  them  every  day  of  your  life,  Seton.     Let  him  be. 

Seton.  I  break.  I  don't  go  on.  You  shan't 
shake  me. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  shall.  I  will  not  have  him  hurt 
that  way.     It  would  not  be  just. 

Seton  [breathlessly).  Mother,  I  believe  you  love 
him  still. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  say  I  will  not  have  his  heart 
broken.  I  love  you,  Seton,  above  everything  in  the 
world,  but  you  shall  not  do  this  unjust  thing. 

Seton.  Just  or  unjust,  I'll  do  it.  You  can  stick 
it  if  you  like,  but  I  shall  be  free. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Seton,  I'll  tie  your  hands  and  gag 


36  ADVERTISEMENT. 

your   mouth.    For  God's    sake,    drop    the   notion. 

Seton.     Never ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Listen  !  Listen  !  .  .  .  Here's  your 
gag.     {She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.) 

Seton.    What  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Oh,  I  never  meant  to  tell  you. 

Seton.    Tell  me. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You  have  forced  me.  Remember, 
you  have  forced  me. 

Seton.     I'll  remember.    Tell  me. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I'll  tell  you  something  of  yourself 
that  he  does  not  know. 

Seton.    Something  he  does  not  know  ?     Mother  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Listen.  .  .  . 

{She  hesitg,tes,  then  she  throws  her  arms  round  him. 
She  feels  that  it  is  just  possible  that  he  will  not  let 
her  embrace  him  again,  when  he  knows  the  truth. 
Reluctantly  she  releases  him.) 

You  are  not  his  son. 

Seton  {after  a  pause).    What  do  you  mean? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You  are  not  his  son.  {She  looks 
up  at  him.)  Oh,  don't  look  at  me  hke  that — don't 
look  at  me  like  that.  {She  covers  her  eyes  with  her 
hands.) 

Seton  {taking  her  wrists  and  pulling  away  her 
hands).  I  had  guessed.  .  .  .  But,  because  you  are 
— you,  I  would  not  beheve. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  It  is  true.  {She  moves  from  him  and 
sits  in  the  chair  r.  of  table.) 

Seton.    Who  was  he  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    You  had  better  not  know. 

Seton.  Yes,  I  knew  and  yet  I  did  not  allow 
myself  to  know.  Of  course.  This  was  the  solution. 
Thank  God  you  have  told  me.     {He  sits  on  settee.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Seton,  Seton,  aren't  you  thinking 
of  me  ? 

Seton.  No.  Of  myself.  Do  you  wish  to  tell 
me  how  it  happened  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  S? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    You  must  listen.  .  .  . 

{She  joins  him  on  the  settee.) 

For  a  little  while  we  were  very  very  happy.  Then 
I  think  he  tired  a  little,  tired  of  me,  tired  even  of  his 
music.  That  wretched  Adolf  was  his  evil  genius,  I'm 
certain.  He  loathed  me  because  I  wasn't  a  Jewess. 
To  him  the  marriage  was  sinful.  He  lured  my 
husband  to  fling  himself  into  the  business  of  money- 
making  and  the  man  seemed  to  slip  from  my  know- 
ledge. He  became  harsh  and  rude  .  .  .  then  brutal. 
Later  {she  shudders  at  the  recollection)  he  became  very 
brutal.  I  ran  away  half  mad  with  fear.  I  had  no 
money.  But  I  felt  I  must  hide,  and  hide  where  I 
would  be  protected.  I  had  no  relations  and  I  went 
to  the  house  of  the  man  I  ought  to  have  married. 
He  sheltered  me — and  though  he  was  a  widower  with 
children,  offered  to  take  me  to  the  other  side  of  the 
world  and  make  me  happy.  I  agreed — because  the 
very  thought  of  my  husband  filled  me  with  terror. 

Seton.    But  you  came  back  to  him. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Yes.  After  two  months  I  came 
back.  I  Ued  as  to  where  I  had  hidden  and  he  was 
unsuspicious.     Men  of  his  race  are  like  that. 

Seton.    But  why,  why  did  you  come  back  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  The  man  who  is  your  father  was 
an  officer  and  a  few  days  before  we  had  planned  to 
go  abroad  he  was  unexpectedly  offered  an  appoint- 
ment that  had  been  the  ambition  of  his  life.  He  had 
to  sacrifice  that  or  me. 

Seton.    And  he  sacrificed  you  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  would  not  allow  anything  else. 
Hewould^have  given  it  aU  up  for  me  {a  little  proudly), 
but  I  refused  to  spoil  his  life.  And  then — at  that 
time — {she  hides  her  face) — there  was — you  and  your 
future  to  think  of. 

Seton.  And  what  sort  of  hell  did  you  come 
back  to  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    He  graciously  forgave  me  for  run- 


SS  ADVERTISEMENT. 

ning  away  and  when  he  heard — when  I  told  him — 
when  I  pretended  to  him  that  he  was  to  become  a 
father,  he  was  kind.  For  two  or  three  years,  but 
that  is  all  you  need  know,  Seton. 

Seton  (determinedly).  Mother,  tell  me  how  he 
treats  you  now. 

Mrs.  Sufan  (wearily  shaking  her  head).  That  is 
all  you  need  know,  dear. 

(Luke  Sufan's  voice  heard  off.  Seton  rises  and 
stands  by  the  fireplace.  Sufan  enters  joyously, 
carrying  the  borrowed  "  Who's  Who.") 

Sufan.  Here  you  are,  bonnies.  Here  you  are, 
my  boy.  Just  take  this  right  in.  (He  reads.) 
"  Sufan,  Luke,  b.  1863,  Proprietor  of  Sufan's  Staminal 
Syrup,  S.  of  Isaiah  Sufan  ;  M.  1891,  EUen  Alice 
Arkington  ;  one  s."  Ha,  ha  !  "  One  s."  One  son  ! 
That's  you,  my  boy.  Ha !  ha !  That's  damned 
funny.  You  know,  I  always  say  life's  the  funniest 
thing  in  this  world.  "  One  S."  That's  all  you  get. 
That's  the  way  they  snub  you  for  being  the  son  of  a 
celebrity.  I  must  go  and  show  it  to  the  boys.  "  One 
s."    Ha  I  ha  I  ha  ! 

(Exit.) 
Curtain. 


ACT  II 

DURING  THE  WAR 

Scene, — Luke  Su fan's  City  Office. 

Several  months  have  elapsed  since  Act  I.  It  is  a  bright 
January  morning. 

The  room  is  very  bare.  The  walls  are  distempered 
green  and  there  are  no  pictures  on  them.  A  huge 
window  occupies  the  best  part  of  the  right  wall.  In 
the  centre  is  a  long  table,  the  longer  sides  being 
parallel  with  the  r.  and  L.  walls.  On  the  table  is 
a  hand  telephone,  blotter,  ink  and  pens,  and  many 
papers,  all  at  the  head  farthest  from  the  footlights. 
A  bove  the  table  is  an  easy  chair  and  on  either  side  are 
four  other  chairs.  A  small  table  bearing  a  typewriter 
stands  against  left  wall.  On  the  back  wall  arid  occupy- 
ing most  of  the  left  half  of  it  is  a  file  of  the  original 
of  the  various  posters  issued  to  advertise  Sufan's 
Speciality.  The  top  one  represents  a  Red  Cross 
nurse  waving  aloft  a  large  bottle  labelled  "  Sufan's 
Staminal  Syrup."  Up  right  is  a  large  blackboard 
with  in  front  of  it  a  set  of  steps.  On  the  blackboard 
is  the  following  legend  in  chalk  letters  : 

You  Don't  Drink 
SUFAN'S  STAMINAL  SYRUP 
Or  You'd  be  too  Busy 
To  Look  at  This. 

{The  only  door  is  in  the  left  wall  up  stage.     To  the  left 
of  the  table  and  at  the  end  farthest  from  the  footlights 
sits  Elsie  Makins,  a  very  pretty  typist.    She  has 
39 


40  ADVERTISEMENT. 

several  unsigned  letters  before  her  on  the  table.  At 
present,  chewing  the  end  of  a  pencil,  she  is  looking 
up  at  the  blackboard.  Luke  Sufan  sits  on  the 
opposite  chair  with  his  back  to  the  typist.  He 
wears  a  dark  grey  morning  suit.  He  is  also  looking 
up  at  the  blackboard.  In  his  right  hand  he  holds  a 
duster.  A  moment  or  two  after  the  rise  of  the  curtain 
he  gets  up,  mounts  the  steps  and  wipes  off  the  board 
the  top  and  last  two  lines,  leaving  only 

SUFAN'S  STAMINAL  SYRUP 

in  the  centre.  He  now  picks  up  a  piece  of  chalk  atid 
crosses  through  the  S's  in  this  line,  so  that  they  become 
symbols  for  dollars,  thus  : 

3UFAN'S  gXAMINAL  ^YRUP. 
Now  under  this  line  he  writes: 

Worth  a  Doixar  a  Nip. 

Again  he  mounts  the  steps  and  writes  at  the  top  of 
the  board  : 

The  only  cure  for  an — 

He  stops,  scratches  his  head  and  gets  down.  H^ 
crosses  to  the  table  and  consults  a  dictionary.  He 
notes  how  to  spell  Ancemia  and  then  goes  back  and 
finishes  the  word  on  the  blackboard.  Again  he  sits 
down  and  surveys  the  handiwork.  The  telephone 
bell  rings.    Elsie  Makins  answers  it.) 

Miss  Makins.  Yes.  Who  ?  .  .  .  Oh !  .  .  .  {To 
Mr.  Sufan)  Mr.  Qualtrough  is  here.  He  wants  to 
come  in  and  see  you. 

Sufan  {without  turning).  Ah !  He's  off  to  the 
front  to-morrow.     Send  him  up. 

Miss  Makin  {speaking  through  telephone).  Ask  Mr. 
Qualtrough  to  come  up  at  once,  please. 

(Sufan  gets  up  again  and  going  to  the  board  crosses 
out  "  nip  "  in  the  last  line  and  substitutes  "  dose." 
Then  he  sits  and  again  scrutinizes  the  proposed 
advertisement.) 


ADVERTISEMENT.  4} 

SuFAN.    What  do  you  think  of  it,  Miss  Makins  ? 
Miss  Makins.     You  don't  say  what  it  costs. 
SuFAN.    That's  right.    Where  shall  I  put  it  ? 
Miss  Makins.    It's  for  America,  of  course, 
SuFAN.    Yes.  .  .  .    What's  your  idea  ? 
Miss  Makins.    Rub  out  the  last  hue. 

{He  does  so.) 

Now  put  this  :  "  You  pay  a  dime  and  drink  a  dollar." 

{He  writes  it  down  as  she  says,  has  a  good  look  at  it, 
and  then  a  good  look  at  her.  Then  he  picks  up  the 
telephone.) 

Sufan  {speaking  into  it).  Counting-house, 
please.  .  .  .  Yes.  Mr.  Sufan  speaking.  Add  five 
pounds  to  Miss  Makins'  cheque  this  week. 

Miss  Makins.    Oh,  Mr.  Sufan ! 

(Randolph  Qualtrough  enters.    He   is    in   khaki 
and  wears  the  uniform  of  a  staff  interpreter.) 

Sufan.    Qualtrough,  do  you  want  a  wife  ? 

Qualtrough.    Well !    That's  odd. 

Sufan.  Let  me  present  you  to  Miss  Elsie  Makins, 
a  girl  with  the  prettiest  and  the  longest  head  in 
London. 

Qualtrough.    How  do  you  do,  Miss  Makins  ? 

{He  is  not  awkward  at  the  introduction,  hut  for  the  life 
of  him  he  cannot  do  more  than  smile  approvingly 
at  the  girl.) 

Sufan.  But  you  shan't  marry  her.  She's  indis- 
pensable. Run  away  now  for  a  httle  while.  Miss 
Makins. 

Miss  Makins.    But  these  letters,  sir  ? 

Sufan.  Ah  yes.  {He  picks  them  up  and  glances  at 
one  or  two.)  Bring  them  in  presently.  The  top  one 
won't  do  anyway. 

Miss  Makins.  Yes,  sir.  .  .  .  Oh,  thank  you  so 
much,  sir. 


IS  ADVERTISEMENT. 

{She  gathers  up  her  papers  and  leaves  the  room.) 

SuFAN  {sitting  down  in  chair  at  head  of  table). 
WeU? 

QuALTROUGH.  It's  really  very  odd  that  you 
should  ask  me  that  question  as  soon  as  I  come  into 
the  room.    That  is  precisely  what  I  have  come  about. 

SuFAN.  What  question  ?  .  .  .  {To  himself.)  You 
pay  a  dime  and  drink  a  dollar. 

QuALTROUGH.  Why,  about  my  wanting  a  wife  .  .  . 
I  do  want  one. 

SuFAN.  You  pay  a — well,  this  isn't  a  girl  shop, 
bonny. 

QuALTROUGH.  Look  here,  Sufan,  I'm  off  to  the 
front  to-morrow.  I  don't  like  to  go  without — you  see 
another  chap  might  come  along.  I  want  to  marry 
Miss  Appleyard. 

SuFAN.  Well,  marry  her.  My  wife  will  be  furious. 
She's  in  a  temper  already.  Wants  me  to  sack  Adolf 
— just  because  he  thieves  a  bit.  Adolf — the  friend 
of  my  youth  !  Adolf — the  human  pianola  !  Worst 
accompanist  in  London,  but  he  was  a  very  good 
waiter.  Very  good  butler  too.  He  may  be  a  German- 
Swiss,  but  he's  naturalized  all  right.  Why  sack  him  ? 
Women  are  fools.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  {He 
points  to  the  blackboard.) 

QuALTROUGH.  It's  very  smart.  Do  you  mind 
telling  me  where  Miss  Appleyard  comes  from  ? 

Sufan.  Oh,  I  see.  Want  to  know  the  pedigree 
before  you  buy  the — ahem  !  Well,  bonny,  you're 
wise. 

QuALTROUGH.     I'm  thirty. 

Sufan.  That's  when  you  start  being  unwise.  It 
isn't  till  you're  thirty  that  you  begin  to  give  money 
away.  I  just  gave  that  girl  five  pounds.  I  was  a 
mug.  She  finished  off  that  "  ad."  for  me,  I  needn't 
have  paid  her.  I  threw  the  money  away.  And  I'm 
hard  up.  Do  you  hear  that,  Qualtrough  ?  By 
George,  I  am  hard  up.    Five  pounds.     {He  snatches 


ADVERTISEMENT.  49 

up  the  'phone.)  Counting-house.  ...  Is  that  the 
counting-house  ?  (He  scratches  his  head.)  Oh, 
nothing  !  {He  puts  down  the  receiver.)  Yes,  bonny, 
I'm  hard  up. 

QuALTROUGH.    Nonseusc. 

SuFAN.  Here,  Qualtrough.  You  have  your  opin- 
ion of  me,  I  know.  You  rather  Uke  me,  but  you  think 
I'm  vulgar,  don't  you  ?  Don't  deny  it.  You'd  be  a 
damned  fool  if  you  didn't  think  it.  And  you're  not 
that.  I  am  vulgar.  I  don't  mind  being  vulgar 
and  I  don't  mind  not  being  able  to  get  rid  of  it,  but  to 
console  me  I  want  money  and  power.  Before  the 
war  I  gave  £20,000  to  the — well,  never  mind  which 
party,  but  you  can  guess  it's  the  party  that  will  get  me 
a  knighthood  quickest.  I  find  that  I  couldn't  really 
afford  the  money.  I've  been  misled.  My  business  is 
going,  going  hke  blazes.  We've  dropped  every 
month  for  six  months.  Now  this  war  has  put  the  lid 
on  with  a  vengeance.  I  spend  just  as  much  on  ad- 
vertising but  still — oh,  I  don't  know  anything  about 
Miss  Appleyard. 

Qualtrough.    Not  her  parentage  ? 

SuFAN.  Yes,  I  do.  She  was  engaged.  Man  died. 
Then  she  came  to  my  %vife.  Oh,  damned  good  family. 
Kentish  yeoman  stock.  Anyway,  what  are  you 
squeamish  about  ? 

Qualtrough.  Squeamish !  Good  heavens,  I'm 
not  squeamish.    Any  brothers  and  sisters  ? 

SuFAN.    Why  don't  you  ask  my  wife  ? 

Qualtrough.  She  would  tell  Miss  Appleyard  I 
had  been  asking.  Besides  I  called  there  this  morning. 
She's  away  for  the  day,  down  at  Wisbech  on  hospital 
work. 

SuFAN.  That's  right.  So  she  is.  Up  to  her  eyes 
in  everything  outside  her  own  home.  .  .  .  By  Jove, 
you  young  fellows  go  love-making  in  a  queer  way 
nowadays.  When  I  was  young  I  kissed  the  girl 
first  and  asked  if  there  was  consumption  in  the  family 
afterwards.    Ah  ,  now  I'm  vulgar,  eh  ? 


44  ADVERTISEMENT. 

QuALTROUGH.  Oh  no.  I  looked  like  that  because 
you  misunderstand.  Frankly,  I'm  head  over  heels  in 
love  with  Miss  Appleyard,  and  I  shall  ask  her  to 
marry  me  anyway,  but  when  you're  storming  a 
fortress,  Sufan,  you  must  know  its  weak  points. 

SuFAN.  Pah  !  What  an  old-fashioned  fellow  you 
axe.  .  .  .    What  are  you  afraid  of  ? 

QuALTROUGH.    That  she'll  refuse  me. 

SuFAN.  Why  ?  You've  got  a  salary,  you  look 
honest  and  your  features  are  not  absolutely  repellent. 

QUALTROUGH  {laughing).  It  isn't  that.  ...  I 
want  to  know  something  of  Miss  Appleyard 's  ancestry. 
My  parentage  mightn't  be  good  enough.  I'm  the 
son  of  a  commercial  traveller. 

Sufan.  By  George  !  That's  good.  Shake  hands. 
Do  you  know  who  my  father  was  ?  No  ?  Well,  he 
was  what  they  call  a  music-hall  jeweller.  He  made  a 
Uving  by  hanging  round  saloon  bars  selling  second- 
hand rings  to  third-rate  music-hall  artists.  That's 
why  I  had  to  give  £20,000.  If  the  old  man  had  been 
a  tradesman  with  a  shop  half  of  that  would  have  been 
sufficient. 

QuALTROUGH.  I  daresay.  And  if  I  were  the  son 
of  a  canon  or  a  disreputable  Honourable  I  shouldn't 
be  bothering  you  with  questions. 

Sufan.  Scut.  You  write  her  down  too  proud. 
She'll  jump  at  you,  jump  at  you.  The  girls'll  throw 
themselves  at  anything  in  khaki,  and  quite  right 
too! 

QuALTROUGH.    Why  didn't  she  marry  long  ago  ? 

Sufan.  Man  died,  I  tell  you.  Faithful  to  his 
memory. 

QuALTROUGH.    Who  was  he  ? 

Sufan.  Um  ?  His  name  was  Peg — or  was  it 
"  the  Peg  "  ?  That  was  it.  He  was  the  eldest  son 
and  his  mother  called  him  "  the  Peg  " — the  peg  to 
bang  the  title  on,  you  know. 

QuALTROUGH.     I  thought  as  much.    Big  family  ? 

Sufan.    Lord — somebody. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  45 

QuALTROUGH  {despairingly).  Yes.  From  that  to 
— a  bagman's  son. 

SuFAN  You  miserable  devil.  Here,  try  a  dose  of 
the  old  Staminal.     That's  what  you  want.     Pay  a 

dime  and  drink  a  dollar.     Pay  a  dime  and  drink  a 

Damn  it,  though,  you're  right  about  this  breeding 
business.  I'm  a  father.  My  son  wouldn't  care  a 
tinker's  curse  if  he  never  saw  me  again. 

QuALTROUGH.     How's  he  getting  on  ? 

SuFAN.  He  doesn't  write  to  me.  He  only  writes 
to  his  mother.  She  gives  me  the  letters.  Here  they 
are.  {He  pulls  out  a  packet  from  a  drawer  in  the  table.) 
He's  somewhere  in  German  South-West  Africa.  He's 
been  in  one  or  two  scraps.  When  the  war  broke  out 
I  was  glad  he  was  stationed  in  South  Africa.  But  it 
seems  there's  plenty  of  hard  fighting  over  there.  .  .  . 
Damn  it.  He  might  drop  me  a  line,  {There  is  a 
break  in  the  big  man's  voice.) 

QuALTROUGH  {after  a  painful  pause).  Do  you 
write  ? 

SuFAN.  Yes.  I  humble  myself.  I  send  him 
plenty  of  money.  ...  By  God,  Qualtrough,  if  my 
business  smashes  my  boy  will  be  done. 

Qualtrough.  He's  selfish.  You  shouldn't  think 
so  much  of  him. 

SuFAN  {after  some  moments  in  which  he  gives  the 
impression  that  he  is  thinking  of  his  boy).  You  pay  a 
dime  and  drink  a  .  .  . 

{The  telephone  bell  rings.) 

{Speaking  into  telephone.)  Send  them  both  up.  I 
expect  Pym  and  Hext  as  well.  Send  them  straight 
up  as  soon  as  they  come. 

Qualtrough.    Who  is  it  ? 

SuFAN.  Mudie  and  Woods.  We're  pow-wowing 
at  twelve.  First  time  you've  been  in  this  room,  isn't 
it  ?  It's  what  I  call  my  Idea  Factory.  When  you 
catch  me  in  here  you  can  guess  that  something's  going 


46  ADVERTISEMENT. 

to  happen.  {He  glances  at  his  watch.)  Well,  I  wish 
you  luck,  bonny. 

QuALTROUGH.  Do  you  mean  to-night  or  out  in 
France  ? 

SuFAN.  Everywhere,  bonny.  Don't  look  so 
miserable  about  it.    She  won't  eat  you. 

QuALTROUGH.  I've  interviewed  everybody  in 
Europe  from  a  crowned  head  to  an  opera  dancer  and 
always  got  what  I  wanted,  but  {very,  very  gloomily) 
that  sort  of  luck  doesn't  last  for  ever. 

SuFAN  {after  groaning  in  sympathy).  Look  here, 
bonny,  get  out  quick.    I've  got  my  own  troubles. 

QuALTROUGH.  Very  well.  {He  rises  and  ambles 
uneasily  to  the  door.)  Eight  hours  to  wait.  Actually 
eight  hours.  And  not  a  man  in  the  length  and 
breadth  of  London  with  an  atom  of  sympathy  in 
his  composition. 

(Duncan  Mudie  and  Willoughby  Woods  enter. 
Woods  wears  morning  coat  and  silk  hat.  Mudie 
is  in  a  short  overcoat) 

Woods.    Ah,  Qualtrough,  and  how  are  you  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  Well,  I  don't  mind  confessing  that 
I'm  not  quite  my  own  bright  self, 

Mudie.    You're  in  the  right  colour,  anyway. 

Qualtrough.  Yes.  Nothing  serious.  Staff  inter- 
preter. I  ain't  no  thin  drab  hero.  {He  is  leaving 
the  room.) 

SuFAN.  Half  a  sec',  bonny.  Take  these  with  you. 
{He  gives  him  a  couple  of  bottles.)  The  old  Staminal. 
Don't  forget  the  poster.    Keep  you  dry  in  the  trenches. 

(Qualtrough  takes  the  botUes  and  exit  laughingly.) 

Mudie.    Good-morning,  Mr.  Sufan. 

SuFAN.  Good-morning,  boys.  Qualtrough's  in 
love.  Don't  expect  him  to  be  civil.  Take  a  seat. 
Smoke  if  you  want  to.  I'm  going  to  give  you  hell. 
{He  sits  at  the  head  of  the  table.) 

Woods  {moving  across  tite  room  and  stopping  to 


ADVERTISEMENT.  47 

survey  the  legend' on  the  blackboard).    Ho  !  ho  !    Have 
we  earned  that  already  ? 

(MuDiE  sits  on  Sufan's  left.) 

SuFAN.  You  have.  Sure  sellers  you  are.  Give 
you  the  money,  you  do  the  rest.  Oh,  I  guess  adver- 
tising is  worth  the  money. 

Woods.  Sure  thing  it  is.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  how 
I  sold  the  Lucky  Stone  ?  ...  It  was  a  little  chunk 
of  red  sandstone  with  a  silver  band  round  it.  We 
had  thousands  of  'em  made  at  ten  cents  and  sold 
'em  for  two  dollars. 

SuFAN  {sulkily).     How? 

Woods.  Advertisement,  sir,  advertisement.  We 
guaranteed  nothing.  We  told  the  public  to  buy  the 
stone  and  watch  out  if  they  wouldn't  strike  rich  in 
ten  days.  We  promised  nothing,  but  we  begged  to 
draw  the  world's  attention  to  what  Charles  P.  Sultz, 
of  Rickville,  Ohio,  said,  "Within  three  days  of  acquir- 
ing your  lucky  stone,  rich  uncle  died  and  left  me  a 
fortune."  We  didn't  promise  this  all  round,  mark 
you,  but  what  happened  to  Charles  P.  Sultz  might 
happen  to  anybody,  and  if  folk  didn't  get  the  luck 
they  could  send  the  stone  back  inside  the  ten  days 
and  their  two  dollars  would  be  refunded. 

MuDiE.  Well,  ye  got  them  back  in  bushels,  I'm 
thinking. 

Woods.  Right  enough,  sonny,  but  it's  a  queer 
thing  that  999  out  of  every  thousand  kept  the  stone 
till  the  eleventh  day, 

(MuDiE  laughs.) 
SuFAN.    H'm.    There's  human  nature  in  that. 

{Enter  Bert  Pym,  followed  by  John  Hext.  Hext 
wears  a  dark  lounge  suit  and  bowler.  On  his  coat 
is  a  badge  indicating  that  he  belongs  to  a  drilling 
corps.  Pym  wears  a  dark  blue  lounge  suit  with  rather 
a  short  jacket.    On  his  head  is  a  silk  hat  which 


48  ADVERTISEMENT. 

stofs  there,   though  at  varying  angles,   throughout 
the  act.) 

Pym.  Ha,  ha.  The  conspirators  are  assembled 
How  are  you,  dear  boy  ?     {He  shakes  hands  with 

SUFAN.) 

SuFAN.  All  wrong.  Take  a  seat.  Morning, 
Johnny.    Come  along,  Woods. 

Pym  {moving  below  table).  I'll  cheer  you  up.  The 
brightest  Uttle  wheeze  you  ever  heard  of.  And  dirt 
cheap.  {He  sits  on  the  right  of  the  table  in  the  chair 
nearest  the  footlights.) 

(Woods  sits  on  Sufan's  right.) 

SuFAN.  It  will  have  to  be,  bonny.  There's  no 
money.    Absolutely  moratoriumed. 

{All  four  laugh  disbelievingly.) 

Hext.  Lost  a  sixpence,  old  man  ?  I  daresay  we 
might  buy  a  lunch  for  you.  {He  sits  on  the  left  of  the 
table  below  Mudie.) 

Pym.  Listen.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  child's  set  of 
bricks  ?  This  sort  of  thing.  {He  pulls  out  a  toy 
model  brick,  gaily  coloured.)  They  manufactured  one 
and  a  half  million  sets  a  year  of  these  in  Germany 
alone.  Now  we're  collaring  the  trade.  Taking  it  up 
properly  too.  And,  dear  boy,  I  have  an  option  with 
the  three  leading  firms  on  the  job. 

SuFAN.    Do  you  want  me  to  start  a  toy  shop  ? 

Pym.  Wait  a  bit,  dear  boy.  You  know  how  they 
get  these  things  up.  Look  at  that  one.  {He  throws 
it  down  on  the  table  to  Sufan.)  The  idea  is  to  teach 
kids  the  alphabet.  A  for  Apple,  B  for  Banana,  C 
for  Canary,  and  so  on.  Well,  laddie,  what  would 
you  say  to  your  little  friend  if  he  got  you  the  option 
on  the  letter  S  ? 

Sufan.    Well  ? 

Pym.  Instead  of  S  for  Strawberry  or  S  for  Sugar 
or  S  for  Saucepan — supposing  every  kid  in  the  world 


ADVERTISEMENT.  49 

was  brought  up  from  youth  to  know  that  S  stood  for 
Sufan's  Staminal  Syrup.  How's  that  for  teaching 
the  young  idea  to  shoot  ? 

SuFAN.  It's  smart,  bonny,  very  smart.  But  I 
can't  pay.    By  George,  I'm  losing  faith. 

Woods  {slowly  wnd  curiously).  Are  you  hum- 
bugging or  not,  Sufan  ? 

SuFAN.  I  am  not.  My  business  is  going  .  ,  . 
I'm  very  much  up  against  it. 

Hext.  Just  a  bad  patch,  Luke.  Not  a  fall  on 
last  equivalent. 

Sufan.  A  damned  big  drop  on  last  equivalent. 
Last  half  year's  trading  showed  no  profit,  all  but  a  loss. 
We've  dropped  heavily  every  month  for  six  months. 

(Pym  whistles.) 

MuDiE.  Is  that  what  we've  foregathered  about 
this  morning  ? 

Sufan.  It  is.  Now,  bonnies,  I  don't  want  to  be 
misunderstood.  You're  my  sellers.  You  cut  up 
between  you  the  largest  sum  spent  on  advertising 
by  any  individual  firm  in  London — you.  Woods,  with 
the  bUl-posting,  you,  Bert,  with  the  stunts,  and  you 
two  lads  ^^4th  the  press.  You've  done  it  well  as  far 
as  I  could  judge,  and  you've  been  pals  about  it. 
But  the  scheme's  suddenly  stopped  working.  The 
Staminal  won't  sell.    What  have  you  got  to  say  ? 

MuDiE.    Well,  it's  very  extraord 

Sufan.    Let  Johnny  speak  first. 

Hext.    Perhaps,  Luke,  the  war 

Sufan.    This  began  before  the  war. 

Hext.  Well,  Luke,  it's  not  a  thing  to  jump  to 
conclusions  about.  I've  told  you,  of  course,  long 
ago  that  you  ought  to  spend  more  on  the  papers  than 
on  the  hoardings  and  stunts. 

Pym  {cutting  in  sharply) .  You've  seen  that  so  often 
in  the  papers  that  you  beUeve  it.  The  stunt's  the 
thing.  Get  people  talking  and  laughing  about  it. 
Now  if  I 


80  ADVERTISEMENT. 

MuDiE  {interrupting).  Och  awa',  Bert,  the  press 
is  the  best  for  a  patent  medicine,  especially  the 
religious  press. 

Woods.  The  rates  are  too  high  in  anything  with 
a  circulation  to  show  a 

Hext  {also  interrupting).  You  keep  your  eye  on 
the  other  things  of  our  sort  that  sell.  Plenty  of  space 
and  plenty  of  dignity — that's  what  does  it  over  here. 
I  don't  say  {pointing  to  the  blackboard)  that  sort  of 
thing  isn't  all  right  for  America.  But  here  you  want 
just  a  simple  statement  of  fact. 

Pym  {sneering).  Yes.  "  Sufan's  Is  It "  or 
"  Sufan's  is  Some  Medicine."  It's  no  good.  There's 
too  many  of  'em  at  it.     You  must  get  a  new  notion. 

MuDiE.  I've  spent  the  best  part  of  three  weeks 
getting  testimonials  from  well-laiown  men  who  are 
acting  as  special  constables.  I've  got  some  of  the 
very  best.     Is  it  all  going  to  be  wasted  ? 

Woods.  Ah,  the  public's  sick  of  the  dodge.  Foot- 
ballers and  cricketers  and  boxers,  celebrities  of  any 
sort — the  public  doesn't  associate  itself  with  them. 
You  get  the  name  of  the  stuff  drowned  in  the  story 
and  the  photo.  Buy  the  same  space  and  put  three 
words  only  in  it — Sufan's  Staminal  Syrup.  That's 
enough.  Get  the  name  big.  Shout  at  'em.  This 
isn't  America,  where  they're  looking  out  for  you  to  be 
clever. 

Hext.  Ah,  you've  got  to  say  something,  Woodsey. 
Let  'em  know  it's  not  a  bath  fluid,  anyway. 

Woods.  Don't  beUeve  it.  It's  necessary  for  some 
things  such  as  books.  I  saw  a  bill  at  Charing  Cross 
bookstall  the  other  day.  "  New  Novel  by  W.  W. 
Jacobs.  Very  funny."  Well,  that's  commonsense. 
But  the  less  you  tell  'em  about  a  patent  medicine 
the  better.  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  {To  Mudie, 
who  has  been  chuckling.) 

Mudie.  I  suppose  if  they  sold  the  Bible  they'd 
advertise  it  as  "  very  religious." 

Pym.    Don't  you  reckon  you've  had  value,  Sufan  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  61 

SuFAN.    I  had  value.    I'm  not  getting  it  now. 
That's  the  point.    Why  is  it  ? 
Hext.    H'm.    Why? 

{He  knows  very  well  and  so  do  the  others.) 

MuDiE.     Imphm ! 

Pym.    Ah!    Why? 

Woods,    I  don't  suppose  any  of  us  is  guessing. 

SuFAN  {angrily).  Now  that  won't  do,  Woodsey. 
You  said  money  enough  would  force  the  sale  of  the 
worst  thing. 

Woods.    Who  said  it  was  the  worst  thing  ? 

SuFAN.    Oh,  hell !     I  know  what  you're  thinking. 

Hext.  WeU,  Luke,  I'll  be  honest.  ...  Of 
course,  it  isn't  quite  ...  is  it  ? 

SuFAN.    No.    Nor  are  half  a  dozen  others. 

MuDiE.    Ah !    The  pubUc  don't  think  so. 

SuFAN  {very  sharply).  Ah  ?  Look  here.  Damn 
you  all !  Have  you  been  taking  my  money  under 
false  pretences  ?  Have  you  known  that  this  thing 
would  collapse  ? 

Hext.    Luke,  Luke  !     Steady,  old  man. 

SuFAN.  Well,  you're  all  callous  enough  about  it. 
You  don't  seem  struck  off  your  feet  much  by  the 
smash.  How  does  Mudie  come  to  know  that  the 
public  believe  in  the  rival  goods  ?  I'll  swear  you've 
seen  this  coming.  Why  weren't  you  honest  enough 
to  tell  me  ? 

Woods.  Now,  Sufan,  don't  shout  at  us.  We 
built  the  business  up.  You  know  it.  You've  had  a 
big  limip  out  of  it.  If  it  drops,  it  drops  no  sooner 
than  you  expected. 

Sufan.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Woods.  What  I  say.  You  knew  the  precise 
quaUties  of  this  wretched  Syrup  long  before  you 
called  us  in.  It  would  never  sell  on  its  merits. 
You  got  us  to  bluff  the  pubhc.  We  succeeded  and 
you  picked  up  a  parcel.  Surely  you  didn't  think  it 
was  going  to  keep  you  all  your  life.     Be  square  now. 


62  ADVERTISEMENT. 

You  know  as  well  as  any  one  of  us  here  that  the 
advertising's  not  to  blame.  It's  simply  the  fact  that 
the  public  have  got  wise  to  the  darned  stuff. 

SuFAN.  If  it's  that !  If  it's  that !  Oh,  curse  it, 
if  it's  that ! 

Woods.  Why  ?  You've  squeezed  the  lemon  dry. 
Chuck  it  away  and  start  squeezing  another. 

SuFAN.  Start  again  !  By  George,  you're  pretty 
gHb. 

MuDiE.  I've  had  terrible  trouble  with  the  special 
constables.  They  all  wanted  to  be  funny  about  it. 
Galbraith  said  it  made  his  hair  grow. 

(Woods,  Pym  and   Hext  laugh.     Sufan  turns  his 
head  slowly,  and  fixes  his  eye  on  Mudie.) 

Pym.  I  usually  lock  my  samples  up,  but  I  left  a 
bottle  lying  about  once  and  my  wife  got  it.  We  had 
awful  trouble  with  her. 

Sufan.     Is  that  Galbraith,  the  famous  noveUst  ? 

Mudie.    The  very  same. 

Sufan.  Let  me  see  his  letter.  I've  never  read 
his  books,  but  he's  a  man  who  knows  how  to  advertise 
himself  all  right. 

(Mudie  -produces  it  from  an  inner  pocket  and  hands 
it  over  to  Sufan.) 

Woods.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  it  has  had 
a  good  run.  I've  handled  things  before  made  up  by 
a  real  good  chemist,  and  they've — 

Sufan.  He's  not  joking.  {His  eyes  on  the  letter.) 
I'm  damned  if  he's  joking.  "  Dear  Mr.  Mudie,"  he 
says,  "  I've  drunk  two  bottles  and  I  don't  Hke  it. 
It  had  no  effect  on  me  except  to  make  my  hair  grow 
substantially.  I've  had  to  have  a  haircut  for  the 
first  time  for  three  years."  He's  not  joking.  Have 
you  seen  him  ? 

Mudie.  Yes.  It's  quite  right.  It  did  make  his 
hair  grow,  but  what's  the  good  of  that  to  us  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  63 

SuFAN.  What's — the — good — of — that — to — us  ? 
You  thick-headed,  short-sighted  owl  of  a  Scotchman  ! 

MuDiE.    But  we're  not  selling  a  hair  restorer. 

SuFAN.  Not  selling  it !  Not  selling  it !  Of  course 
not.     {His  voice  rises  to  a  roar.)    But  we  shall  sell  it. 

{The  others  prick  up  their  ears  at  once.) 

Woods.  Hello !  Hello !  You've  hit  a  scent. 
By  Jove,  you've  hit  a  scent. 

SuFAN.  You  say  my  Staminal  is  found  out — that 
it  don't  cure  that  run-down  feeUng,  that  the  pubhc  is 
as  anaemic  after,  as  it  was  before — then,  by  all  the 
powers,  I'll  wrap  it  up  in  a  new  cover. 

Woods.  Good  boy !  Good  boy !  That's  the 
talk. 

SuFAN.  Think  of  all  my  tons  of  stock  !  It'll  be 
as  easy  as  A.B.C.  to  re-colour  it  and  make  it  a  bit 
thicker.  Sufan's  Scalp  Cream !  How  does  that 
sound  ? 

Hext.  Luke,  you're  a  genius.  Sufan's  Scalp 
Cream  ! 

Pym.  Sufan's  Scalp  Cream !  Holy  crikey,  he's 
hit  it. 

SuFAN.    Look  here  !    The  stuff'll  do. 

{He  pulls  out  a  bottle  of  the  Staminal  from  the  drawer 
in  the  table  and  whips  the  covers  off.) 

It  doesn't  smell. 

{He  sniffs  it  himself  and  jerks  it  under  the  noses  of 
Woods  and  Mudie.) 

It  ain't  sticky. 

{He  dips  his  fingers  in  and  rubs  some  on  his  hair.) 

It's  the  softest  snap  I  ever  struck.     Makes  it  glossy, 
doesn't  it  ?     {He  drops  his  head  for  inspection.) 


54  ADVERTISEMENT. 

MuDiE.  Good  Lord,  man  !  Galbraith  didn't 
put  it  on  his  hair.     He  drank  it. 

SuFAN.  So  he  did,  bonny.  So  he  did.  We'll 
tell  'em  to  take  it  both  ways.  "  Drink  it  up  and 
rub  it  in."    They'll  use  twice  as  much. 

Pym  {clapping  his  hands).  Ha  !  Ha !  This  does 
me  good !  Good  old  Sufie.  You'll  get  back  home 
with  it.    I  swear  you  will. 

Woods.  Get  home  ?  He'll  canter  it.  It's  the 
dandiest  idea.  But  you  mustn't  drop  the  Staminal 
all  at  once,  sonny. 

SuFAN.  No  fear.  No  fear.  We'll  let  it  go 
gradually.  Let  it  drop  while  the  war  lasts,  reduce 
the  advertising  and  switch  on  to  this. 

Woods.  That's  the  game.  That's  the  game. 
By  Jove,  you're  hot  in  here.  {He  rises  and  goes  to 
the  udndow  c.) 

SuFAN.  Get  your  brains  busy,  boys.  We'll  set 
'em  alight  all  right.  Bless  my  soul,  if  hfe  isn't  the 
funniest  thing  in  this  world. 

Hext.  Hurroo  for  the  Scalp  Cream !  Josh  I 
Won't  we  make  some  of  the  old  firms  sit  up. 

Pym.  Thank  goodness  you've  got  plenty  of  hair, 
Sufie.    Your  picture '11  have  to  go  on  the  bottle. 

SuFAN.  So  it  shall,  bonny,  so  it  shall.  {He  is 
in  high  glee.)  Bonnies,  this  makes  me  feel  ten  years 
younger. 

(MuDiE  and  Hext  are  whispering  excitedly  to  each 
other.) 

Pym.  Good  lad !  Put  your  hair  straight.  We 
ought  all  to  lunch  together  on  this. 

SuFAN  {as  quick  as  lightning).  I  will,  bonny,  I 
will.  It's  very  kind  of  you.  You  shall  all  take  me 
down  to  the  Caf6  Royal. 

{He  gets  out  a  pocket  comb  and  glass  and  puts  his 
hair  to  rights.    Woods  throws  up  the  window  and 


ADVERTISEMENT.  55 

the  noise  of  passing  traffic  and  newsboys'  calls  enters 
the  room.) 

What  are  you  boys  [speaking  to  Hext  and  Mudie) 
plotting  about  ? 

(Pym  joins  Woods  at  the  window.) 

Hext.  We're  trying  to  fix  on  the  best  time  to 
start. 

SuFAN.  Right  away,  bonnies,  right  away.  In 
a  small  way,  first,  while  trade's  bad  and  then 

Hext.  You  wait  a  bit,  Luke.  Here's  the  scheme 
of  space  bookings  for  the  old  Staminal,  most  of  which 
this  new  hair  restorer  will  take  over. 

SuFAN.    Quite  so.     Quite  so. 

Hext.  Well,  I  make  May  the  best  on  what  we've 
got,  but  we  can  spread  a  good  bit  more,  of  course, 
if  you  want  it. 

SUFAN.  Quite  so.  Give  me  the  paper.  [He 
takes  it  and  scans  it  carefully.) 

Woods  (still  at  window).  What's  that  on  the 
bill  ?  "  Desperate  Fighting  in  German  South- West 
Africa." 

Pym.    Where  ?    By  Jove,  yes. 

SuFAN  {throwing  the  paper  down).  Don't  pay  any 
attention  to  that.  Get  out  a  new  scheme.  I  want 
it  everywhere,  here,  America  and  the  Colonies  by 
the  Spring.     It's  unlucky  to  wait. 

Woods.  I  say,  Sufan.  Your  boy  is  in  German 
South- West  Africa,  isn't  he  ? 

Sufan.  Yes,  bonny.  {Jokingly.)  Shall  we  give 
him  an  agency  ? 

Woods.    Look  at  that  bill. 

(Sufan  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out.) 

Sufan.    What  bill  ?     "  Probables  and  Selections 
from  Plumpton  ?  " 
Woods.    No,  no,  the  other. 


66  ADVERTISEMENT. 

SuFAN  (gasping).  "  Desperate  Fighting  in  Ger- 
man South-West  Africa." 

Hext  and  Mudie  {looking  up).    What's  that  ? 

SuFAN  {with  a  dry  throat).  My  boy  might  be  in 
it.  Little  beggar's  sure  to  get  a  scratch  or  two  if 
there  are  any  going.  {He  rings  a  bell.)  Rare  httle 
chap  for  a  shindy.  He  was  always  fighting  at  school. 
I'd  give 

(Miss  Makins  appears  at  the  door.) 

Send  out  for  a  paper,  Miss  Makins.    Look  sharp. 

(Woods  shuts  down  the  window.) 

Miss  Makins.    Yes,  sir. 

{Exit  Miss  Makins.) 

Hext.    I  thought  the  rebels  were  finished  with. 

SuFAN.  Not  yet,  bonny.  And  there  are  German 
troops  out  there.  There's  a  lot  about  it  in  the  boy's 
letters.  {He  takes  out  the  bundle  of  letters  from  the 
drawer.)    Listen  to  this  one. 

{At  this  moment  Randolph  Qu although  enters. 
His  face  is  white  and  his  movements  jerky. 

Hello,  bonny ! 

QuALTROUGH.    Sufan 

SuFAN.    Yes  ? 

(Miss  Makins  appears  carrying  a  telegram.  She 
looks  very  troubled  and  frightened.  Qualtrough 
snatches  the  telegram  from  her  and  waves  her  from 
the  room.) 

Qualtrough.    Sufan  .  .  .  I 

SuFAN.  That  wire's  for  me,  bonny,  isn't  it  ? 
{He  goes  to  take  it.) 

{  Qualtrough  draws  it  back.    Sufan  becomes  suddenly 
rigid  and  stares  into  Qualtrough's  eye.) 


ADVERTISEMENT.  67 

The  boy  ?     {The  words  come  ache-laden  from  the  heart 
and  are  barely  audible.) 

QuALTROUGH.    God  help  you  I 

[The  big  m^n's  face  works  convulsively.  He  sways. 
QuALTRouGH  goes  to  Mm,  but  he  breaks  roughly 
from  him.) 

SUFAN.    He  is  killed  ? 

(QuALTROUGH  inclines  his  head.  The  others  all  watch 
the  man's  agony  with  drawn  breath.  He  totters 
to  his  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  sinks  into 
it.  He  buries  his  head.  Pym  removes  his  hat. 
First  from  the  collapsed  man  comes  a  sound  of  great 
indrawing,  a  great  feeding  of  the  airless  lungs.  Now 
comes  the  great  cry.  He  loved  as  only  the  Jewish 
father  can  love.  In  his  cry  is  his  agony.  So  Vir- 
ginius  cried  on  the  bier  of  Virginia.  All  the  pain 
is  in  the  one  cry.  Then  there  is  silence.  The 
man  is  motionless.) 

(Woods  picks  up  his  hat  and  quietly  walks  from  the 
room.  MuDiE  follows  him.  Then  Hext  goes,  his 
old  head  shaking.  He  seems  older  and  more 
stooped.    Pym  goes  now,  with  bent  head.) 

(QuALTROUGH  opens  the  telegram  and  reads  it,  put- 
ting it  again  in  his  pocket.  The  telephone  rings. 
QuALTROUGH  goes  to  it.) 

QuALTROUGH.  Miss  Appleyard  ?  Yes.  It  is 
Qualtrough  speaking.  Yes,  yes.  He  has  just  had 
a  duplicate  telegram.  .  .  .  You  are  going  to  Wis- 
bech to  fetch  her  ?  .  .  .  God  bless  you.  What's  the 
time  of  the  train.  I'll  be  at  Liverpool  Street  and 
go  down  with  you.  Yes,  yes.  I'll  be  there.  Good- 
bye. 


18  ADVERTISEMENT. 

{After  the  soft  closing  of  tJie  door  behind  Pym,  Sufan 
had  lain  in  silence.  Now  his  shoulders  move  and 
he  begins  to  blubber.  The  great  tragedy  of  his  agony 
is  over.     He  is  rather  pitying  himself.) 

QUALTROUGH.    Shall  I  tell  you  how  he  died  ? 

Sufan  {between  his  sobs).  Yes  .  .  .  Tell  me 
...  Oh  Got !     Mein   Got !     How  did  it  happen  ? 

Qualtrough.  It's  a  very  bald  account  just  over 
the  cable.  Your  boy's  name  is  mentioned  for  {he 
pauses)  acts  of  extraordinary  bravery.  He  saved 
two  of  his  fellow  officers.  He  died  of  his  wounds — 
like  a  hero.  That  must  be  your  only  consolation. 
His  name  will  be  in  every  one's  mouth. 

Sufan.  He's  gone  .  .  .  Oh,  bonny,  I  can't  stand 
it  ...  I'd  have  given  anything  to  have  kept  just 

him.    And  he  didn't I  wonder  if  he  thought 

of  his  old  father,  Qualtrough,  when  they  were 
shooting.  Did  he  know  what  it  would  mean  to 
me  ? 

Qualtrough.    He  surely  thought  of  you — all. 

Sufan.  It  would  have  been  much  better  if  I'd 
gone  instead  of  him.  .  .  .  Mein  kleiner  zuneshi, 
mein  kleiner  oystev  !  Dershossen  zu  weren  !  (My 
little  sonny.  My  Httle  chap !  To  be  shot  down  !) 
Oh  Got  1  He  was  ashamed  of  me.  He  never  wrote 
to  me.  He  hated  me.  He  must  have  hated  me. 
Mein  Got.    I  can't  stand  it. 

{The  tears  stream  down  his  face  and  he  constantly  dabs 
them  away  with  a  handkerchief.) 

He  only  cared  for  his  mother. 

Qualtrough.  His  mother !  She  doesn't  know 
yet.  Miss  Appleyard  opened  the  telegram  and  I 
am  going  down  to  Wisbech  now. 

Sufan.  That's  right,  bonny,  you  must,  you  must 
...  I  can't.    I  can't.    I  won't. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  80 

QuALTROUGH.  I  will  ask  Miss  Appleyard  to  tell 
her. 

SuFAN.  Yes,  yes.  Ask  Miss  Appleyard.  Tell 
her  I  can't  .  .  .  come  home. 

QuALTROUGH.    She  will  understand. 

(Miss  Makins  appears  at  the  door.) 

Miss  Makins.  Oh,  sir,  excuse  me ;  but  there  are 
two  reporters  asking  to  see  you.  I  begged  them 
to  go  away,  but  they 

QuALTROUGH.    What  papers  ? 

Miss  Makins  {glancing  at  the  two  cards  she  holds 
in  her  hand).  The  Central  Association  and  the  Press 
Syndicate. 

QuALTROUGH  {to  Sufan).  Will  you  see  them  ? 
I  think  you  should  if  you  can  bear  it.  .  .  .  Remem- 
ber your  boy  is  a  national  hero  and  the  public  has  a 
right  to : 

Sufan.  Oh,  I  can't.  I  can't.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes, 
I  suppose  I  must.  Yes,  bonny.  I  understand. 
I'll  see  them.     Just  those  two.    No  more. 

QuALTROUGH.    Send  them  in,  Miss  Makins. 

(Miss  Makins  nods  and  retires.) 

Don't  let  them  distress  you  too  much.  Just  tell 
them  what  they  want  to  loiow  and  send  them  away. 
Then  lock  the  door  and  try  and  compose  yourself. 
You  have  to  meet  your  wife  soon.  If  you  are  brave 
it  will  fall  more  softly  on  her.  {He  places  his  news- 
paper on  the  table  by  Sufan.) 

Sufan.  That's  right,  bonny.  You're  a  pal,  a 
good  pal.  Come  back  for  me  when  you  can  pre- 
sently. Take  me  home.  My  God !  I  do  feel  all 
alone. 

{The  door  opens  to  admit  two  Reporters.    The  first 
to  speak  is  of  gentlemanly  appearance  and  manner. 


60.  ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  other  is  of  common  type,  and  only  removes  his 
howler  hat  as  an  afterthought.) 

QuALTROUGH.    Good-moming.    This  is  Mr.  Sufan. 

(QuALTROUGH  glances  at  his  watch  and  exit  hurriedly.) 

1ST  Reporter.  We  are  very  sorry,  sir,  to  have 
had  to  come  at  such  a  sad  moment. 

2ND  Reporter.  Awfully.  {His  expression  clashes 
with  his  speech.) 

Sufan.  Don't  worry,  bonnies.  {The  sob  is  still 
in  his  voice.)  The  public  must  be  served.  I'm 
only  a  servant.    Sit  down. 

{He  dries  his  eyes  and  makes  an  effort  to  compose  himr 
self.  The  two  Reporters  sit  in  the  two  chairs  on 
the  left  of  the  table  and  produce  notebooks.) 

1ST  Reporter.  This  Mr.  Sufan  was  your  son, 
sir,  I  understand. 

Sufan.    Yes. 

1ST  Reporter.    Your  only  son  ? 

Sufan.  My  only  child.  {Tears  again  com^  into 
his  eyes.) 

1ST  Reporter.    And  his  age  was 

Sufan.    Twenty-two  and  six-twelfths. 

1ST  Reporter.  He  was  a  second  Ueutenant  in 
the  Wessex  Fusihers  ? 

Sufan.    Yes. 

1ST  Reporter.    How  long  had  he  been  in  Africa  ? 

Sufan.    Barely  six  months. 

2ND  Reporter.  Do  you  mind  saying  where  he 
was  educated  ? 

Sufan.    Repton  and  Jesus,  Cambridge. 

1ST  Reporter.    Any  letters  from  him  lately  ? 

Sufan.    Yes.    He  wrote  ...  I  have  some  here. 

1ST  Reporter.  The  last  one,  Mr.  Sufan.  Any- 
thing of  interest  in  it  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  61 

SuFAN  {producing  the  letters).  They  were  always 
very  interesting.  This  is  the  last  one.  Do  you 
want  me  to  read  it  ? 

1ST  Reporter.  Anything  about  his  life  ?  Any 
personal  detail.  I'm  sorry  to  worry  you,  Mr.  Sufan, 
but  the  pubhc  will  be  crazy  to  know  the  least  thing 
about  him. 

Sufan.  I'll  read  one  to  you  and  you  can  write 
down  what  you  want.  {He  reads  in  a  broken  husky 
voice.)  "  I  was  awfully  glad  to  get  your  letter  the 
day  before  Christmas.  We  had  no  letters  for  three 
weeks,  which  made  it  all  the  more  fierce.  StiU  in 
the  desert.  The  everlasting  dust  wind  makes  of 
life  no  blooming  picnic.  Bivouacking  by  day  is 
putrid " — I  think  it's  putrid,  but  it's  blotted — 
"  Fancy    washing    every    day !     What    epicurean, 

lu "    What's  that   word  ?     Lucullan,    is   it  ? — 

"  LucuUan  luxury.  I  am  quite  well  and  fit,  and  get 
outside  the  army  rations  of  bully  and  biscuit  in 
something  under  evens  every  time.  It  is  estimated 
that  this  column  alone  devoured  27,000  plum  pud- 
dings sent  by  the  South  African  Committees.  This, 
if  known,  would  be  a  frightful  warning  to  the  Hun. 
Good-bye  now,  darling  mother.  Your  loving  son, 
Seton." 

(Sufan  breaks  down  again  and  buries  his  head  in  his 
arms.) 

1ST  Reporter  {after  a  pause,  in  which  he  gives 
Sufan  time  to  recover).  Was  your  son,  sir,  the  Seton 
Sufan  who  broke  the  'Varsity  record  for  the  hundred 
yards  ? 

Sufan  {still  sobbing).  That's  right.  He  was  in 
the  cricket  eleven  too. 

1ST  Reporter.  I  remember.  What  a  splendid 
fellow  he  was  ? 

2ND  Reporter.  And  you,  Mr.  Sufan  ?  We  may 
say  that  you 


«S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

SuFAN.    Is  all  this  going  in  ? 

2ND  Reporter.    All  we  can  get,  I  reckon. 

SuFAN.    Well,  I'm — I'm  in  Who's  Who. 

2ND  Reporter.  Oh,  of  course.  But  anything 
more  personal  ? 

SuFAN.  More  personal  ?  (He  rises  and  paces  the 
room.)  More  personal.  This'll  be  in  all  the  papers, 
won't  it  ? — all  over  the  world — America,  Colonies, 
everywhere.  Yes.  .  .  .  Well,  I  suppose  they  will 
want  to  know  something  about  me.  I'm  his  father. 
I'm  his  father.  Why  not  that  ?  Why  not  ?  Well, 
you  can  say — you  can  say — ^you  can  say  that  Mr. 
Sufan,  seen  at  his  City  offices,  though  constantly 
interrupted  by  emotion,  declared  that  the  blow 
fell — more  heavily  on  him  as  he  was  just  about 
— as  he  is  just  preparing  for  a  great  new  business 
departure. 

2ND  Reporter.    Ah,  yes.    What  is  that  ? 

Sufan  {warming  to  his  subject).  Say  that  Mr. 
Sufan,  the  inventor  and  proprietor  of  the  Famous 
Staminal  Syrup,  is  about  to  put  on  the  market  a 
sensational  discovery  in  the  hair  restorer  line  to  be 
known  as  Sufan 's  Scalp  Cream.    Can  you  get  that  in  ? 

2ND  Reporter.    We'll  try  'em. 

Sufan  {now  slightly  excited).  I  spend  more  on 
advertising  than  any  other  firm  in  London.  It 
ought  to  go  in.  Say  that  the  discovery  was  made 
accidentally  by  a  world-famed  celebrity  from  whom 
Mr.  Sufan  bought  the  secret  at  fabulous  cost.  This 
Scalp  Cream  will  be  sold 

1ST  Reporter  (drily).  Is  there  anything  further 
you  can  tell  us  about  your  son,  Mr.  Sufan  ? 

Sufan.    Eh  ? 

1ST  Reporter.  Was  he  by  any  chance  engaged 
to  be  married  ? 

Sufan.  Oh  no.  You  can  say  that  the  tragic 
event  won't  interfere  with  the  production  of  the  new 
speciality  which  will  be  on  sale  in  every  country  of 
the  globe  not  later  than 


ADVERTISEMENT.  63 

1ST  Reporter.  I  don't  think  we  need  keep  you 
any  longer,  Mr.  Sufan.  I  am  very  much  obhged  to 
you.    Good  morning. 

{He  leaves  the  room.) 

2ND  Reporter.    Not  later  than  when  ? 
Sufan.    September,  bonny. 
2ND   Reporter.    Thank   you,    sir.    I'm   sure    I 
hope  it  will  go  all  right. 
Sufan.    Thank  you,  bonny. 

{Exit  2ND  Reporter.) 

I'm  sure  it  ought  to.  {He  picks  up  the  bottle  on  the 
table  and  smells  it,  and  examines  it  again.)  Yes,  it 
ought  to.     It  ought  to. 

{Enter  Miss  Makins  carrying  a  letter.) 

Miss  Makins.  This  has  just  come  for  you,  sir. 
Seeing  what  the  postmark  is  I  thought  you'd  Hke 
to  get  it  at  once. 

Sufan.  Eh  ?  {He  takes  the  letter.)  By  Jove, 
it's  from  the  boy.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear  girl,  he's 
written  to  his  old  father ! 

Miss  Makins.  You  won't  want  to  be  bothered 
with  the  letters,  sir,  will  you  ? 

Sufan.  No.  But  there's  one  I  want  to  go  off 
at  once.  Sit  down  a  minute.  {He  tears  the  letter 
open  and  hastily  scans  it.)  Oh  hsten,  listen.  He's 
written  to  me.  {His  voice  is  breaking  rather  with 
joy  than  with  sorrow.)  "  Dear  father.  Please  don't 
send  me  any  more  money.  I  really  don't  want  you 
to.  I  can  live  quite  weU  on  my  pay.  If  you  send 
me  more,  I  shall  send  it  back  really.  Yours,  Seton." 
He  didn't  want  me  to  give  him  my  money.  Oh, 
my  dear,  my  dear,  he  must  have  liked  me  after  all. 
He  didn't  want  my  money.    That  must  have  been 


64  ADVERTISEMENT. 

the  last  letter  he  wrote,  {He  kisses  it.)  Dos  teure 
ingele  !  (The  dear  lad  !)  He  didn't  want  to  be  a 
burden  to  his  old  father.  Oh,  mein  teuer,  teuer 
kind !  (Oh,  my  dear,  dear  boy.)  {He  is  crying 
almost  happily.)  You  mustn't  bother  about  me. 
Miss  Makins.  You  see  .  .  .  it  was  the  first  .  .  . 
the  first  letter — and  just  before  he  was  killed.  .  .  . 
Oh  yes,  the  letter  for  you.  It's  only  a  Uttle  one, 
but  it's  urgent.    Put  it  down. 

(Miss  Makins  pulls  the  typewriter  towards  her  and 
proceeds  to  type  the  letters.) 

It's  for  Thurston  and  Thurston,  the  poster  people. 
"  Gentlemen.  Let  me  have  designs  as  quickly  as 
possible  for  a  new  poster.  I  want  a  pretty  girl, 
head  and  shoulders  and  plenty  of  hair."  Under- 
line "  plenty."  "  The  more  hair  the  better.  Get 
an  R.A.  to  do  it  if  you  can — ^three  or  four  colour. 
I  don't  mind.  The  lettering  will  be  simple, 
just  '  Sufan's  Scalp  Cream  Done  It.'  Yours  faith- 
fully." 

Miss  Makins.  "Done  It."  Wouldn't  "Did 
It  "  be  better  ? 

SuFAN.  Eh?  No.  We'U  have  "Done  It." 
It  isn't  good  grammar  but  people  don't  stop  to  look 
at  good  grammar.  (Miss  Makins  goes  to  the  typing 
table  and  begins  to  type.)  Why  didn't  he  want  any 
money  ?  The  dear  lad  !  I'd  rather  he'd  have  had 
it.  Mein  Got !  I'd  rather  he'd  have  had  it.  .  .  . 
Add  a  postscript,  my  dear.  Tell  'em  it  must  be  a 
fair  girl.  Golden  hair,  piles  of  golden.  That's  what 
women  want.  You  can  be  the  model  for  the  picture. 
Miss  Makins.  Yes,  I'd  rather  he'd  have  had  it. 
But  he  didn't  want  it.  Didn't  want  to  bleed  me. 
The  lad  wouldn't  do  that.  Still,  it's  funny.  He 
knew  the  money  was  nothing  to  me.  I  never  refused 
any  money,  eh,  Miss  Makins  ?  I  shouldn't  have 
got  where  I  am  if  I'd  started  by  refusing  money. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  65 

{He  almost  chuckles.)      He  wasn't  the  son   of   his 
father. 

{She  hands  him  the  typed  letter.) 

By  Jove,  he  wasn't  the  son  of  his  father.     {He  dips 
a  pen  in  the  ink  and  signs  the  letter.) 


Curtain. 


ACT  III 

AFTER  THE  WAR 

Scene. — The  Music  Room,  31a,  Arlington  Street.  {As 
in  Act  I.) 

The  panel  which  surmounted  the  mantelpiece  in  the 
first  act  has  gone  and  its  place  is  taken  by  a  large 
oil  painting  of  Seton  Sufan.  There  are  spring 
flowers  in  the  room  now.  On  the  table  against  the 
left  wall  are  about  a  dozen  pink  monthly  A  rmy  Lists 
and  three  or  four  quarterly  Army  Lists. 

(When  the  curtain  rises  Miss  Appleyard  is  discovered 
on  the  settee  r.,  with  her  feet  up.  Randolph 
QuALTROUGH  is  sitting  on  the  seat  below  the 
piano.  Miss  Appleyard  may  wear  what  she 
likes  but  one  imagines  her  in  a  Dolly  Varden  cos- 
tume of  print,  black  or  dark  blue  stones  round  her 
white  throat,  and  her  very  glorious  hair  piled  high. 
Every  man  over  forty  in  the  audience  should  say : 
"  If  that  beggar  in  the  light  grey  lounge  suit  doesn't 
get  up  quick  and  hug  her  I'll  do  it  myself.") 

Qualtrough  {with  a  note  of  excitement  in  his  voice). 
How  wet  it  was  last  Thursday ! 

Miss  Appleyard.  Indeed,  yes.  Let's  see.  To- 
day is  Thursday.  It  is  just  a  week  ago  since  it  was 
wet. 

Qualtrough  {twitching  with  emotion).  Just  a 
week.    March  is  usually — awful,  of  course. 

66 


ADVERTISEMENT,  87 

Miss  Apple  yard.    It  will  be  April  on  Saturday. 

QuALTROUGH.    By    Jove,    so    it    will.    April    on 

Saturday.    April  on  Saturday.    April  on  Saturday. 

{He  repeats  the  phrase  again  and  again  to  keep  him 
from  fainting  with  excitement,  just  as  Oscar  Wilde 
would  say  "  Poison  from  Paris.  Poison  from 
Paris  I  ") 

Miss  Appleyard.    "  Oh,  to  be  in  England " 

what  is  that  quotation  ? 
QuALTROUGH.    April  on  Saturday  ! 

{He  gets  up  and,  with  a  courage  that  surprises  him, 
goes  near  enough  to  her  to  enable  him  to  sit  on  the 
chair  above  table  c.) 

Miss  Appleyard.  I  think  it  was  Browning,  but 
I  wouldn't  bet.  I  always  mix  him  up  with  Cowper, 
don't  you  ? 

QuALTROUGH  {gloomily).  Is  that  the  man  who 
wrote  Gray's  Elegy  in  a  country  churchyard  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.  Oh  no,  but  he's  the  man  who 
might  have  written  it. 

QuALTROUGH.  That's  what  I  meant.  It  is  the 
one  thing  that  has  deterred  me  from  playing  golf  at 
Stoke  Poges. 

Miss  Appleyard  {reproachfully).  Oh,  do  you  play 
golf? 

QuALTROUGH.    Eh ?  .  .  .    Er — why? 

Miss  Appleyard,  I  don't  like  golfers.  They 
seem  to  belong  to  another  race — the  people  who 
existed  before  the  war. 

QuALTROUGH.  I'm  uot  much  of  a  golfer.  I  only 
write  to  the  papers  about  it.    {A  pause.) 

Miss  Appleyard.    Busy  just  now? 

QuALTROUGH.    Oh  yes. 

Miss  Appleyard.    Finished  the  book  ? 

QuALTROUGH.    Oh    yes.    That's    why {He 

pauses.) 


68  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Miss  Appleyard.    Yes? 

QuALTROUGH.  Well,  I  shouldn't  be  loafing  about 
if  I  hadn't  finished  it. 

Miss  Appleyard.  You  certainly  seem  particu- 
larly aimless  this  morning. 

QuALTROUGH,  Aimless !  {To  himself.)  Good 
Lord! 

Miss  Appleyard.  Why  not  come  and  sit  beside 
me  on  the  couch  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  May  I  ?  There  doesn't  seem  to 
be  much  room. 

Miss  Appleyard.  Don't  be  alarmed.  I  will 
move  my  feet. 

{He  watches  her  move  them  and  then  he  sits  on  the 
couch  as  far  from  her  as  ■possible.  There  is  again 
an  awkward  pause.) 

QuALTROUGH.    Are  you  going  out  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.    Very  soon,  I  think. 

QuALTROUGH.    Where  is  Mrs.  Sufan  ? 

Miss  Appleyard     She  is  out. 

QuALTROUGH.    Yes  ?  .  .  .    And  Mr.  Sufan  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.    He  is  in. 

QUALTROUGH.    Ycs  ?     Is  he  going  out  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.    Not  till  this  afternoon, 

QuALTROUGH.  Ah  !  .  .  .  Do  you  know  where  he 
is  going  ? 

Miss  Appleyard  {sighing).  Yes.  He  is  mayor  of 
one  of  the  South  London  boroughs,  you  know.  I 
never  remember  which,  but  it's  the  one  where 
his  works  are.  The  King  goes  there  this  after- 
noon to  open  a  new  hospital.  He  wiU  have  to  be 
present. 

QUALTROUGH.      I  see. 

Miss  Appleyard.    I  hope  it  will  be  fine. 

QuALTROUGH.    Yes,  indeed. 

{There  is  again  a  pause.    Miss  Appleyard  rises  and 


ADVERTISEMENT.  69 

goes  up  stage  a  little.     Then  she  comes  down  shyly 
and  stands  by  his  side.) 

Miss  Apleyard.  I  really  don't  think  I  can  wait 
any  longer. 

QuALTROUGH.    Ah  !    Must  you  really  go  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.    I  see  I  must  help  you  out. 

QuALTROUGH.     Miss  Appleyard  ! 

Miss  Appleyard.  I  will  marry  you,  dear,  if  you 
want  me. 

QuALTROUGH  (Jumping  to  his  feet).  Eh !  .  .  . 
{He  takes  her  left  hand).  Oh,  you  darUng  !  You 
have  guessed  ! 

Miss  Appleyard  {demurely).  Yes,  dear.  I  have 
guessed. 

{He  advances  to  her.  She  does  not  move,  but  drops  her 
head.  He  raises  her  head  and  kisses  her  lips.  Then 
he  draws  back  speechless  with  amazement  at  his 
temerity.  Now  she  comes  to  him,  impulsively.  She 
flings  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  this  time,  as  she 
is  kissed,  her  knees  give  way  under  her  so  that  he 
has  to  support  her  almost  as  if  she  were  swooning  in 
his  arms.  It  is  a  kiss  of  abandonment  in  contrast  to 
the  first  timorous  salute.) 

QUALTROUGH.  Rose,  how  you  must  despise  me ! 
But  I  dreaded  your  refusal.  It  didn't  seem  possible 
that 

Miss  Appleyard.  You  dear,  dear  thing.  Sit  down 
and  then  you  won't  look  so  long. 

{They  both  sit  on  the  couch.) 

You're  not  a  bit  modem  and  I  Uke  you  all  the  better 
for  it. 

QuALTROUGH.  You  See,  you  were  engaged  before 
and  to  such  a 

Miss  Appleyard.    Oh  yes.    To  Lord  Callander. 


W  ADVERTISEMENT*. 

You're  only  my  second  lover  and  you  were  so  slow. 
Do  you  know  what  Callander  did  ?  Took  me  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck,  kissed  me  and  said  :  "  Now  you 
belong  to  me,  old  Tiddley-winks,  and  any  other 
bloke  who  comes  along  wiU  get  punched." 

QuALTROUGH.     Did  he  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.  He  did.  Don't  you  wish  now 
that  you  had  his  impudence  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  It  isn't  all  my  fault,  darhng.  I 
was  going  to  ask  you  on  the  very  day  when  the  news 
arrived  of  Seton's  death.  But,  of  course,  that  was 
hardly  the  occasion — well,  I  had  to  think  of  Mrs. 
Sufan  and 

Miss  Appleyard.  Oh,  I'm  glad  you  didn't.  I 
wasn't  nearly  so  keen  on  you  then. 

QuALTROUGH.     Oh,  you  weren't. 

Miss  Appleyard.  Oh  no !  ...  I  think  you've 
grown  on  me,  Randolph.  Randolph  !  Such  a  lovely 
name,  and  so  distinguished ! 

QuALTROUGH.    Think  so  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.  Rather !  Our  children  are 
sure  to  be  clever. 

QuALTROUGH.     Hooray  for  "  our  children  !  " 

Miss  Appleyard.  Oh,  Randolph !  For  how 
many  weeks  on  end  do  you  think  you  could  be  utterly 
idiotic  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  Eternally.  Let's  make  up  our 
minds  to  be  frivolous  for  ever. 

{They  kiss.) 

Miss  Appleyard.    When  shall  we  marry  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  Well,  to-day's  Thursday,  isn't  it  ? 
Friday's  unlucky.  I'm  playing  rackets  on  Saturday. 
Yes — all  day.  The  trains  are  all  rotten  on  Sunday. 
What  about  Monday  morning  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.  Dear  old  tyrant !  I'd  marry 
you  this  afternoon,  Randolph,  but  you  know  there  is 
somebody  to  be  faced. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  71 

QuALTROUGH,    Mrs.  Sufan. 

Miss  Appleyard,  I  dread  telling  her.  It  will  be 
awful.  We  are  friends  in  a  way  that  no  man  could 
understand,  especially  since  Scton's  death.  .  .  . 
And  she  becomes  more  and  more  unhappy  with  her 
husband. 

QuALTROUGH.     Surely  he  is  good  to  her. 

Miss  Appleyard.  He  does  not  knock  her  about, 
if  that  is  what  you  mean.  A  man,  especially  one  of 
his  race,  does  not  wilfully  damage  his  property.  I 
cannot  say  anything  better  of  him  than  that.  He 
seemed  to  soften  and  improve  slightly  about  the 
time  that  Seton  died  but  it  all  disappeared  as  soon  as 
the  new  Scalp  Cream  began  to  boom.  He  is  on  the 
road  to  being  a  miUionaire.  Imagine  what  that  will 
mean  for  Mrs.  Sufan.  And  she  will  be  really  and  truly 
all  alone  when  I  go. 

QuALTROUGH.    But  you  will  go. 

Miss  Appleyard.    Yes.    Because  I  love  you. 

{He  takes  her  in  his  arms.) 

There  is  a  mourner  for  every  lover  and  a  sigh  for 
every  kiss.  {She  kisses  him.)  It  is  very  often  when 
we  are  happiest  that  we  are  most  cruel.  It's  no  use 
worrying  over  it,  Randolph.  It's  the  game.  It  isn't 
cricket.  But  it's  the  game.  {She  gently  releases 
herself.) 

(QuALTROUGH  rises  and  goes  to  the  fireplace  r.) 

I  wonder  what  she  will  do.  I  wonder  what  she  will 
do. 

{The  door  opens  to  admit  Luke  Sufan.  He  is  cor- 
rectly and  smartly  dressed  in  black  morning  coat 
and  grey  trousers.  The  suit  becomes  him  admirably 
and  he  undeniably  cut  a  handsome  figure.  His 
hair  is  very  carefully  dressed  to  suggest  plentifulness.) 

QUALTROUGH.    Ho,  ho.    Best  party  kit,  eh  ? 


78  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Miss  Appleyard.     Doesn't  he  look  smart  ? 

SUFAN  (who  is  in  rare  good  spirits).  Ha,  ha  !  Fills 
the  picture,  doesn't  it  ?  Yes,  I  think  we  shall  manage 
to  carry  it  off  all  right. 

QuALTROUGH  {who  knows  quite  well).  But  why  this 
sartorial  splendour  to-day  particularly  ? 

SuFAN.  To-day,  bonny,  I  am  to  be  presented  to 
the  King.  That's  all.  I'm  to  be  presented  to  the 
King.  Any  remarks  ?  No  ribald  jeers,  I  take  it. 
All  in  order  and  cash  on  delivery — Good  Lord  !  Sup- 
posing it  rains  ! 

Miss  Appleyard.    Is  Mrs,  Sufan  going  ? 

SuFAN.  Eh?  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  not.  .  .  . 
Here,  bonny  I    Miss  Appleyard  ! 

(They  come  to  him  and  he  holds  them  by  the  arms.) 

I've  had  the  office. 

Miss  Appleyard.    The  office  ! 

Sufan.  I've  had  the  office,  the  nod,  the  tip,  you 
know.  I'm  to  be  knighted  this  afternoon.  {He 
chuckles.) 

Miss  Appleyard.    Really ! 

Sufan.    Re-blooming-ally. 

Qualtrough.  I  congratulate  you,  Sufan.  Splen- 
did ! 

{They  shake  hands.    Miss  Appleyard  crosses  to  the 
fireplace.) 

Miss  Appleyard.    What  will  Mrs.  Sufan  say  ? 

Sufan.  Ah,  yes.  Wait  until  the  wife  hears  it. 
Eh  ?  Her  Ladyship  !  Her  Ladyship  !  Not  yet, 
but  at  half-past  three  sharp,  "  Her  Ladyship." 
Ah,  bonny,  it  means  a  lot  to  a  woman. 

Qualtrough.  Yes,  yes.  As  you  say.  It  will 
mean  a  lot  to  her.  ...  So  it  has  come  at  last.  {He 
joins  Miss  Appleyard  at  the  fireplace.) 

Sufan.  Yes,  bonny,  at  last.  Can  you  fix  me  at 
21  scraping  a  fiddle  for  a  guinea  a  night  and  now 


ADVERTISEMENT.  73 

Sir  Luke,  with  the  biggest  patent  medicine  business 
in  London  and  an  option  on  a  comer  house  in  Gros- 
venor  Square.  Life's  the  funniest  thing  in  the  world. 
That's  what  I  always  say. 

{He  actually  executes  a  few  steps  of  a  cake  walk.    Qual- 
TROUGH  and  Miss  Appleyard  both  laugh.) 

Won't  the  boys  make  a  fuss,  old  Hext  and  Pym  and 
the  others  !  The  beggars  !  They'll  expect  a  cham- 
pagne lunch.  Strictly,  they  ought  to  give  me  some- 
thing. There  ought  to  be  congratulatory  dinner, 
oughtn't  there  ?  {He  has  his  hack  to  them.)  I  wouldn't 
mind  paying  for  the  wines.  Presentation  portrait 
wouldn't  be  bad.  CompUment  to  her  Ladyship  and 
all  that.    What  do  you  say  to 

{He  turns  and  catches  Qualtrough  pressing  Miss 
Appleyard's  hand.) 

Hello  !  Hello  !  Hello  !  Bonny,  you  don't  mean  to 
say  you've  stormed  the  fortress  at  last. 

Qualtrough  {laughing).  Well,  the  fortress  is 
mine  at  any  rate. 

SuFAN.  Well,  for  a  chap  of  your  length,  you  were 
the  most  chicken-hearted — but  it's  all  right  now,  eh  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.  We  are  engaged.  He  accepted 
me  without  a  struggle. 

SuFAN  {laughing  boisterously).  It  was  that  way, 
was  it  ?    Well,  I  am  glad. 

{He  holds  out  his  hands  to  Miss  Appleyard  and  she 
puts  hers  in  his.) 

I'll  be  very,  very  sorry  when  you  go.  Very,  very 
sorry,  my  dear.  Missus  hasn't  nagged  half  so  much 
since  you  came.  Can't  stand  her  glaring  at  me  if  I 
make  a  bloomer.  You  choked  her  off  a  bit,  I  know. 
Yes,  I'm  very  sorry  you're  going.  Of  course,  she'll 
grizzle  like  blazes.     {He  walks  away.) 

(Qualtrough  and  Miss  Appleyard  look  a  little 
awkward.) 


74  ADVERTISEMENT. 

.  .  .  What  on  earth  do  you  say  when  it's  over  ?  Do 
you  know,  Qualtrough  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  When  it's  over  ?  When  it's  over  ? 
How  do  you  mean  ? 

SuFAN.  Why,  after  you've  been  smacked  and  all 
that. 

Qualtrough.  Oh-h-h  !  You  mean  this  afternoon, 
after  the  King  has  knighted  you. 

SuFAN.    Certainly,  bonny. 

Qualtrough.  What  do  you  say  ?  Goodness 
knows  ! 

Miss  Appleyard.  You  can  hardly  say  "  Thanks 
awfully."     {She  crosses  left.) 

SuFAN.     Get  hold  of  the  poker,  Qualtrough. 

Qualtrough.    The  poker ! 

SuFAN.  Yes.  We'll  have  a  rehearsal.  But  for 
goodness'  sake  be  careful.  I  got  into  an  awful  row 
once  for  poking  the  fire  with  that  poker.  It  seems 
it's  Flemish  manufacture  or  something,  too  good 
to  be  useful. 

(Qualtrough  gets  the  poker.) 

Now,  look  here,  you  say — what  do  you  say  ? 

Qualtrough.    Well,  I  command  you  to  kneel. 

SuFAN.    That's  right.  .  .  .    Which  knee  ? 

Miss  Appleyard.    Perhaps  it's  both  knees. 

SuFAN.  Don't  be  spiteful.  One's  bad  enough. 
{He  struggles  down  on  one  knee.)  Now,  which  shoulder 
do  you  tap  on  ? 

{Enter  Mrs.  Sufan.) 

Mrs.  Sufan  {in  blank  amazement).  Whatever — 
are    you — doing  ? 

(Qualtrough  puts  back  the  poker  and  Sufan  struggles 
to  his  feet.  Mrs.  Sufan  wears  a  gown  of  slate  and 
deep  purple.  It  owes  nothing  to  Bakst  but  will  be 
ascribed  to  him  by  many  of  the  audience  who  ought  to 
know  better.    On  her  head  is  a  hat  that  is  a  decora- 


ADVERTlSEMENt.  76 

Hon  not  a  head-covering.  The  mark  of  her  recent 
loss  is  upon  her,  but  hers  is  a  face  that  is  rather 
beautified  by  tragedy.) 

SuFAN  [ignoring  her  astonishment) .  Hello,  my  dear. 
You're  back  early.  And  just  in  time,  just  in  time. 
What  do  you  think  has  happened  since  you  went  out  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.     I  have  no  idea, 

SuFAN.  Ha,  ha !  Had  a  visitor.  Little  chap 
with  a  bow  and  arrow.     Fired  two  shots  and 

Mrs.  Sufan.  What  is  he  talking  about,  Mr. 
Qualtrough  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  Mrs.  Sufau,  I — he  means  that 
Miss  Appleyard  has  promised  to  be  my  wife. 

Mrs.  Sufan  {turning  and  fixing  her  eyes  on  Miss 
Appleyard).  You  !  You  are  going  !  .  .  .  I  con- 
gratulate you  both.  .  .  .  You  will  be  very  happy, 
Mr.  Qualtrough. 

{Sfie  holds  out  her  hand  and  he  shakes  it.  Miss  Apple- 
yard  rises.  Mrs.  Sufan  seems  to  be  about  to  go  to 
her  and  kiss  her  but  instead  she  leaves  the  room  very 
quietly.  There  is  a  pause.  Miss  Appleyard 
looks  from  Sufan  to  Qualtrough  and  then  im- 
pulsively hurries  out  after  Mrs.  Sufan.) 

Sufan  {shaking  his  fist  ai  Qualtrough).  You're 
a  damned  nuisance  !    She'll  sulk  for  weeks  over  this. 

Qualtrough  {groaning).  I  knew  that  part  of  it 
would  be  awful. 

Sufan.  They're  inseparable — or  I  thought  they 
were.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  girl  the  boy's  death 
would  have  killed  her.  I  shall  have  her  start  grizzling 
aU  over  again.    Damn  it !     I  can't  stand  her  grizzling. 

Qualtrough.  Perhaps  it  will  be  possible  for  us  to 
live  near.     Rose  might 

Sufan.  Humbug !  You've  got  the  girl.  Don't 
share  her — least  of  all  with  a  woman.  There  is  only 
one  person  that  she  has  to  bother  her  head  about  for 
the  Mure  and  that's  you.     Let  her  have  a  canary  if 


76  ADVERTISEMENT. 

she  likes  but  draw  the  hne  at  a  lap  dog.  Toy  Pomer- 
anians break  up  more  homes  than  chorus  girls. 

QuALTROUGH.  You'll  remember  that  I've  been 
pretty  patient.  You  ought  to  tell  your  wife  that. 
You  know  I  was  going  to  ask  her  on  the  day  you 
heard  of  Seton's  death. 

SuFAN.  That's  right,  bonny.  .  .  .  Have  you 
seen  his  name  in  the  Army  List  ?  {He  goes  to  the 
table  L.  and  gets  a  quarterly  Army  List.)  I've  got 
every  one,  Monthly  and  Quarterly,  in  which  his 
name  appears.  There's  the  last  entry.  {His  voice 
is  hushed.)  "  Deaths.  Sufan,  2nd  Lieutenant  (local 
Lieutenant)  Seton  Arkington,  Wessex  Fusihers  .  .  . 
South  West  Africa,  and  the  date.  See  the  crossed 
swords  before  his  name.  That  means  war  service. 
I  ought  to  cut  it  out  and  frame  it,  oughtn't  I  ? 

{He  puts  the  book  back  and  crossing  to  the  fireplace, 
stands  looking  up  at  Seton's  portrait.  Enter 
Adolf.) 

Adolf.     Mr.  Pym  is  on  the  telephone,  sir. 
Sufan.     Um.     I  don't  want  to  speak  to  him  this 
morning.    See  what  he  wants,  Qualtrough,  will  you  ? 

{Exit  Qualtrough.) 

(Adolf  is  going,  but  Sufan  calls  him  back.) 

Sufan.    Adolf ! 

Adolf.  Yes,  sir  ?  {He  shuts  the  door  behind 
Qualtrough  and  comes  down  to  his  master.) 

Sufan.  Adolf,  do  you  remember  that  night  when 
I  bought  the  toothache  tincture  in  Aldersgate  Street  ? 

Adolf.    Not  likely  to  forget  it,  sir. 

Sufan.  Make  it  Luke,  Adolf,  make  it  Luke.  We 
can  be  human  beings  when  we're  alone. 

(Adolf  smiles  his  slow,  sinister  smile.) 

What  did  I  say  to  you  when  we  got  outside  the 
chemist's  shop  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  77 

Adolf.  You  mean  about  the  Staminal  Syrup, 
Luke? 

SuFAN,  Yes.  Didn't  I  say — "  Adolf,  I  got  an 
idea." 

Adolf.  You  did.  And  you  swore  it  would  make 
you  and  it  has. 

Sufan.    Didn't  I  say  I'd  look  after  you,  Adolf  ? 

Adolf.    You  did,  Luke,  and  you  have. 

Sufan.  You  were  an  out-of-work  waiter.  Out  of 
work.  And  no  character.  All  the  result  of  adding 
the  date  on  to  the  items  of  the  customers'  accounts. 
Nasty  trick  that,  Adolf,  specially  if  it's  the  31st  of 
the  month.  But  I  stuck  to  you  with  all  your  faults. 
Half  a  crown  you  had  out  of  every  guinea  I  earned 
and  you  were  the  worst  pianist  in  London. 

Adolf.    You  were  a  pal,  Luke.    God  bless  you. 

Sufan.  Don't  slobber.  You  got  a  good  job  here 
and  I  dare  say  you're  making  some  pickings.  Oh, 
don't  look  hurt.  I  hear  about  you,  mind.  But  I'm 
a  mug.  I  say  "It's  only  old  Adolf.  He'd  only  be 
miserable  if  he  wasn't  sneaking  something."  I  say, 
do  you  remember  when  we  nicked  those  two  bottles 
of  whisky  out  of  the  artists'  room  at  Frascati's  ? 

Adolf  {chuckling).    Don't  I  ?    What  a  night ! 

Sufan.  Yes,  Adolf.  They  weren't  bad  days.  I 
never  reckoned  I'd  get  as  far  as  this.  And  I'll  bet 
you  never  thought  of  being  an  Arlington  Street  butler 
.  .  .  But  Hsten.  Do  you  know  what  you're  going 
to  be,  Adolf  ?  .  .  .  You're  going  to  be  the  butler  to  a 
knight ! 

Adolf.    You  don't  mean  I've  got  to  leave  you. 

Sufan.  No,  no,  no.  A  knight,  a  knight,  my  boy  ! 
How  about  Sir  Luke  Sufan  ! 

Adolf.    A  knight !    You  ! 

Sufan.    Certainly, 

Adolf.    Luke,  you're  a  marvel ! 

Sufan.    Put  it  there,  Adolf  ! 

{They  shake  hands.) 


IS  ADVERTISEMENT. 

And  not  a  word  to  the  servants.  Let  it  take  'em  by 
surprise  in  the  morning.  And  the  first  one  that 
doesn't  say  "  Sir  Luke  "  and  "  My  Lady  "  gets  a 
month's  wages  in  lieu. 

Adolf.  I'll  see  to  them.  Sir  Luke  Sufan  !  It's 
a  blessed  miracle !  A  miracle !  You  married  a 
Gentile  and  yet  God  hasn't  cursed  you. 

Sufan.     I  have  paid,  Adolf,  I  have  paid.    The  boy  ! 

Adolf.  You  will  never  have  paid  in  full.  A  goy, 
Luke,  a  goy  !  She'll  drag  you  down  yet.  Mark  my 
words.     She'll   drag  you  down. 

Sufan.    Sh-h  !    He's  coming  back. 

(QuALTROUGH  appears  at  the  door.) 

You'll  get  it  done  at  once,  Adolf.     {He  resumes  the 
attitude  of  the  master.) 
Adolf.    Certainly,  sir. 

{Exit  Adolf.) 

Sufan  {to  Qualtrough).  Ah,  bonny,  what  did  he 
want  ? 

Qualtrough.  Well,  I  gather  that  he  knows 
something.  Says  he'll  be  there  this  afternoon.  But 
he  wants  to  run  round  this  morning  and  congratulate 
you. 

Sufan  {chuckling).  Ah,  well !  Let  him  come. 
Let  him  come.  Good  Uttle  lad  !  He's  got  a  nose 
like  a  weasel. 

(Mrs.  Sufan  appears  at  the  door.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Miss  Appleyard  is  just  going  out- 
Mr.  Qualtrough.  You  may  like  to  go  with  her.  .  .  • 
I  was  a  httle  abrupt  to  you  just  now.  I'm  sorry. 
I  do  indeed  congratulate  you.  I  shall  miss  her, 
very  much.  I  would  have  fought  to  keep  her  from 
most  men.     I  let  her  go  willingly  to  you. 

Qualtrough  {showing  slight  emotion).  I  am 
very  proud  that  you  should  have  said  that,  Mrs.  Sufan. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  79 

[He  hows  to  hey  and  leaves  the  room,  dosing  the  door 
softly  behind  him.) 

SuFAN.  I'm  awfully  sorry  about  this,  awfully 
sorry.  I'll  put  an  advertisement  in  the  "  Morning 
Post "  at  once. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Oh,  Luke,  don't  talk  Hke  that. 
Don't  talk  Uke  that. 

Sufan  {puzzled).  But  you'll  have  to  have  another. 
.  .  .  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  mope  about  it.  You 
know  I  can't  bear  having  you  on  the  grizzle.  Besides 
you've  only  heard  the  bad  news  of  the  day.  What 
about  the  good  news  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {sitting  in  settee,  r.).  Ah !  .  .  . 
Have  you  made  another  million,  or 

Sufan.  You  know  where  I  am  going  this  after- 
noon ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Somewhere  in — Lambeth,  isn't  it  ? 

Sufan.  Never  mind.  Who's  going  to  be  there 
beside  me  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    I  won't  guess. 

Sufan.  Who's  going  to  be  there  beside  me  ?  .  .  . 
I'll  tell  you.    The  King  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Ah,  yes. 

Sufan.    And  I'm  to  be  presented  to  him. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  So  that's  why  you  look  so  new  this 
morning. 

Sufan,  Don't  I  look  all  right?  You're  always 
trying  to  pull  me  down  a  peg.  But  I  guess  you'U  be 
a  little  more  civil  after  to-day. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  What  on  earth  has  happened  or  is 
going  to  happen  ? 

Sufan  {striking  an  attitude).  This  afternoon  I  am 
to  be  knighted. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You — are  going — to  be  knighted ! 
{She  says  it  in  scarcely  a  complimentary  way.) 

Sufan.  I  am.  {He  chuckles  and  rubs  his  hands). 
Eh,  my  lady  ?  Eh,  my  lady  ?  At  half-past  three 
no  more  of  the  Mrs.  but — ^Lady  Sufan.  What  do 
you  say  to  that,  eh  ? 


80  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  But  you — ^you  surely — I  congratulate 
you. 

Sufan.  Not  forgetting  yourself,  eh  ?  Ha,  ha ! 
Can't  you  see  it  on  your  cards  ?  "  Lady  Sufan." 
Just  that.  Nothing  more.  And  I've  got  an  option 
on  a  comer  house  in  Grosvenor  Square.  Royalty 
had  it  once.  Only  gave  it  up  because  of  the  rats. 
By  George,  we'll  make  things  hum.  .  .  .  What's 
up  ?    You  don't  look  very  cheerful  about  it. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Eh  ?  I — {affecting  pleasure  which 
she  does  not  feel.) — I  think  it's  splendid  for  you,  Luke. 
Splendid !  You've  worked  so  hard.  And  you 
wanted  it  so  badly.    And 

Sufan.  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that.  I've  never 
thought  twice  about  the  thing,  but  I  suppose  it  was 
bound  to  come.    Still,  it  gives  one  a  certain  class,  eh  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Yes.  It  admits  one  to  a — certain 
class. 

Sufan.  There's  been  a  lot  of  people  too  good  for 
me.  I'll  show  'em  now.  Some  of  those  damned 
country  people,  eh  ?  Sir  Luke  Sufan,  Knight,  will 
be  a  different  proposition  to  the  "  old  hair-oil  mer- 
chant." 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Luke,  Luke,  please  don't  run  away 
with  that  idea.  There's  a  good  man.  You  will 
find  this — handle  useful  in  your  business.    That  is  all. 

Sufan.  Business  be  hanged  !  I'm  after  bigger 
game  now.  We'll  have  to  entertain.  Have  the  right 
people  round  to  dinner.  Get  a  good  chef.  Have  a 
box  at  the  opera.  Buy  some  race-horses  perhaps. 
That  gets  the  Duchesses  after  you.  What  about 
Parliament,  eh  ?  How  about  Sir  Luke  Sufan,  Knight, 
M.P.  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Surely  you  don't  wish  to  do  any- 
thing so  inexpressibly  vulgar  ? 

Sufan.  Vulgar  !  Vulgar  !  Look  here,  I've  heard 
enough  of  that  word.  Damn  it,  if  you  aren't  un- 
grateful. Your  father  christened  you  Ellen  Arking- 
ton.    I  christen  you  Lady  Sufan.     {Rather  to  himself.) 


ADVERTISEMENT.  81 

And  how  the  dickens  can  a  member  of  ParUament  be 
vulgar,  I'd  Hke  to  know  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  (rising).  Luke,  Luke,  I  only  want  to 
help  you.  I  have  often  felt  so  sorry  for  you.  I  am 
sorry  for  you  now,  sorry  for  what  this  honour  may 
bring  upon  you.  BeUeve  me,  Luke,  I  can  guide  you. 
Don't  lose  your  temper  with  me. 

Sufan  {his  eyes  bulging).  You're — sorry — for  me  ! 
You're — sorry — for — me  !  Well,  if  that  doesn't  beat 
cock-fighting. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  1  understand  you,  Luke.  This 
pretty  title  has  dazzled  you  hke  your  first  diamond 
ring.  You  want  a  httle  shadow,  a  httle  cool  air. 
Try  and  look  at  the  whole  business  in  its  proper 
f)erspective.  If  you  can't  see  for  yourself,  let  me  see 
for  you.  Do  as  I  tell  you — and  ignore  every  one  else's 
advice.  Do  you  know,  Luke,  that  you  have  only 
one  candid  friend  ? 

Sufan  {slightly  mollified).  Of  course  I  want  you 
to  help.  .  .  .  We  work  together.  Man  and  wife 
must  ...  I  couldn't  go  any  further  without  you. 
And  I'll  Hsten  to  you  about  whom  to  have  at  the 
house,  and  so  on,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  don't  think  you  will,  Luke.  They 
would  have  to  be  very,  very  different  from  the  shady 
sycophants  that  you  bring  into  the  house  now. 

Sufan  {angrily).  They're  all  right.  They're 
business  men.  They're  my  class.  They  helped  to 
make  me  what  I  am  and  they  helped  to  make  you, 
Lady  Sufan. 

Mrs.  Sufan,  God  forgive  them  !  They  had  a  big 
hand  in  the  un-making  of  you.  They  have  made  some- 
thing new  of  the  Luke  Sufan  I  once  knew — and  loved. 

Sufan.  Don't  talk  like  that !  You  love  me  still, 
don't  you? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  It  has  not  occurred  to  you  to  ask 
that  for  over  twenty  years. 

Sufan.  It  wasn't  necessary !  Not  necessary — 
to  ask. 


82  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  That  was  how  you  felt.  Yes  .  .  . 
Luke,  your  heart  is  not  mine.  It  is  in  your  business. 
Do  you  remember  where  it  was  before  ? 

Sufan  {testily).    Oh,  say  what  you  mean. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  In  me  and  in  your  music.  I  didn't 
mind  sharing  you  with  your  music.  .  .  .  You  took 
your  vioUn  with  you  on  our  honeymoon  and  I  was 
not  jealous.  Far  from  it.  So  long  as  you  loved  your 
music,  so  long  should  I  love  you. 

SuF.\N,  Precious  ass  I  should  look  prancing  round 
with  a  fiddle  at  my  age.     {He  sits  l.  of  table.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You  have  said  it.  You  have  said  it. 
.  .  .  Don't  you  understand  that  when  I  talk  of  your 
violin  I  talk  of  all  the  noble  side  of  you,  all  that  part 
of  your  nature  which  once  rejoiced  with  me  in  what 
was  true  and  beautiful. 

Sufan.  A  man  ages.  What  is  all  that  foohshness 
of  youth  to  look  back  upon  ?  You  might  just  as  well 
cry  for  your  first  rattle  or  first  box  of  soldiers.  A 
man  ages.    A  man  ages.    Don't  women  age  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Happiness  ages.  Love  ages.  And 
both  should  grow  riper.  We  were  happy  only  for  a 
poor  little  two  years.  Then  the  demon  of  lust — 
lust  for  wealth  and  power — possessed  you.  You  fell 
among  thieves,  men  who  would  make  you  a  thief. 
Don't  deny  that.  Your  only  excuse  is  that  you  are 
one  of  them.  That  demon  destroyed  the  angel  in  you. 
Your  violin  fell  to  pieces  in  a  dirty  comer — ^and  you 
drove  your  wife  from  her  home. 

Sufan.    For  God's  sake  !    You  promised  never — 

Mrs.  Sufan.  We  both  promised  to  forget — but 
neither  of  us  saw  very  far  into  the  future.  Now  I 
must  recall  all  that,  that  you  may  fuUy  understand. 
.  .  .  You  drove  me  out  in  an  hour  of  brutal  mad- 
ness— and  you  little  knew,  you  little  knew  what 
punishment  that  act  would  bring  upon  me. 

{This  reference  Sufan,  of  course,  misunderstands.) 

I  came  back.    You  promised  that  you  would  be  the 


ADVERTISEMENT.  83 

Luke  of  old,  not  the  stranger  whose  very  presence  dis- 
gusted me.  .  .  .     But  you  never  kept  your  word. 

SuFAN  (hoarsely).  I  was  working — ^working,  like  a 
fiend. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  For  yourself.  .  .  .  For  yourself. 
.  .  .  Only  for  my  boy's  sake  did  I  endure  the  Hfe 
I  have  endured  for  the  last  twenty  years.  .  .  .  Now 
he  has  gone. 

Sufan  {beginning  to  suspect  something  of  her  inten- 
tion).    And  now  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Now  you  want  me  to  travel  in  new 
ways,  ways  of  your  choosing.  You  want  me  to 
accompany  you  into  a  fresh  career  of  vulgar  ambition, 
to  be  your  hostess  for  further  fools.  You  want  me  to 
take  over  the  job  of  the  hotel  keeper,  see  that  the 
cook  is  right  and  the  servants  capable — servants 
controlled  by  that  thieving  scoundrel,  Adolf.  You 
want  me  to  look  the  part  of  Lady  Sufan.  And  for 
these  things  only  do  you  want  me.  For  twenty 
years  you  have  only  wanted  me  for  selfish  reasons. 
And  now  you  want  to  double  my  dose  of  humihation. 
Luke  {almost  tenderly),  I  cannot  ride  with  you 
along  this  new  road.  I  cannot.  Even  if  I  agreed 
my  promise  would  be  worse  than  useless.  I  must 
break  it,  and,  inevitably,  I  would  hamper,  perhaps 
destroy,  an  ambition  with  which  I  have  no  sym- 
pathy. 

Sufan.  If  an  angel  from  heaven  had  descended 
to  tell  me  this  I  would  not  have  beheved  it. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  know.  That  is  what  has  held  me 
back  so  long.     I  knew  it  would  shock  you. 

Sufan.    This — from  you  ?     From  you,   Ellen  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.    The  worm  turns. 

Sufan  {fiercely).     I  don't  want  to  hear  that. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You  know  it.  You  are  only  sur- 
prised that  the  worm  should  so  far  forget  itself  on 
your  Turkey  carpet. 

Sufan.  I  am  surprised — surprised  because  I  be- 
lieved in  you.     I  am  surprised  because,  however  I 


84  ADVERTISEMENT. 

have  failed  you,  you  have  never  failed  me.    I  am 
surprised  because — because  you  are  my  wife. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  That's  it.  I  know  the  strength  and 
weight  of  the  chain.  But  you  have  given  me  power 
to  break  it. 

Sufan.  To  break  it !  To  break  it !  {He  gazes 
at  her  in  amazement  and  slowly  realizes  that  she  m^ans 
what  she  says.)  "  Be  not  against  me  to  desire  that  I 
should  leave  thee  and  depart ;  for  whithersoever 
thou  shalt  go  I  will  go,  and  where  thou  shalt  dwell  I 
also  will  dwell." 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I'm  sure  we  can  settle  matters  quite 
calmly.  If  we  argue  or — or  quote  the  Bible,  we  will 
lose  our  tempers. 

Sufan.  What  do  you  mean  by  "  settle  matters  "  ? 
There  is  ony  one  way  of  settling  them.  You  are  my 
wife  and  you  shall  go  your  husband's  way. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  No.  .  .  .  Unless  that  way  were  a 
new  way — and  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late  now. 

Sufan.  And  is  it  for  you  to  dictate,  woman  ? 
How  long  have  you  held  that  view  ? 

Mrs.    Sufan.    I    never    dictated.     I    implored. 
You  promised  and  broke  your  promise.     Now  it's 
all  over — finally. 
Sufan.    What  are  you  threatening  me  with  ? 
Mrs.  Sufan.    Luke,  I  must  leave  you. 
Sufan.    Leave  me ! 
Mrs.  Sufan.    Yes. 

Sufan.    You   are   mad.    You    are   mine.    How 
have  I  wronged  you  ?     Leave  me !     I  have  been 
faithful.    I've   worked   for — yes,   for   you.    You're 
the  mother  of  my  dead  son. 
Mrs.  Sufan.    Don't  drag  him  in. 
Sufan.     I  will.    By  Heaven,   I  will.    I'd  have 
him  here  to  Usten  to  your  shameful  words  if  I  could. 
Mrs.   Sufan.    Listen,   hsten,   Usten.    You   have 
been  faithful.     Save  on  that  one  fateful  and  ter- 
rible occasion  when  your  humanity  seemed  tem- 
porarily to  leave  you,  you  have  been  in  the  eyes  of 


ADVERTISEMENT.  85 

the  world  a  tolerable  husband.     No  man  or  woman 
on   God's   earth   would  justify   me.    And    I    don't 
want  their  justification.     I  don't  want  a  word  of 
sympathy.     I  shall  leave   you  because — because — 
oh  !  I  do  so  want  to  spare  you.     {Shrilly.)     Can't 
you  believe  me,  man,  when  I  tell  you  I  am  suffer- 
ing agony  this  moment  here  in  this  room  that  has 
been  paid  for  out  of  rotten  patent  medicines,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  portrait  of  my  son,  paid  for  out  of 
rotten  patent  medicines,  in  the  company  of  a  hus- 
band who  has  bought  a  knighthood  out  of  rotten 
patent  medicines.  .  .  .     Hear  me  out !    Can't  you 
realize  what  agony  your  society  constantly  causes 
me  ?     You,  whose  soul  was  once  in  the  finer  things 
of  life,  now  reveUing,  rioting  in  money  and  all  the 
contemptible  instead   of   the  beautiful  things  that 
money  could  buy.    Oh,  I  know  you'd  buy  me  a 
Corot  or  a  Tanagra,  but  could  I  ever  see  them  through 
anything  but   a  smear  of   Sufan's   Scalp  Cream  ? 
Can't  you  guess  even  vaguely  at  the  shame  I  feel 
at  my  failure  ?    Can't  you  guess  how  I  despise  my- 
self for  faiUng  to  save  you  for  the  better  hfe  for  which, 
before  God,  you  were  made.  .  .  ,    You,  Luke,  you 
who  had  this  noble  gift  as  your  birthright.     You, 
who  played  your  vioUn  so  that  all  my  hfe  I  felt  I 
must   worship  !    You — to   have  sunk   to   quackery 
and  a  purchased   knighthood  !     I  could  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  forgive  your  contemptuous  treatment 
of  me.    God  knows  it  must  be  partly  my  fault  that 
I  have  no  more  of  your  confidence  than  one  of  the 
housemaids.     I  have  borne  aU  that  long  and  could 
go  on  bearing  it.  .  .  .    But  what   I   cannot  bear 
is  the  change  in  you.     I  cannot  hve  with  you  be- 
cause you  are  not  the  man  I  loved  and  married. 
You  are  making  more  money  out  of  your  horrible 
business.    You    are    to    be    knighted.    Everything 
will  be  worse,  far  worse.     It  would  drive  me  mad. 
...  I   have  never  cried  over  you.    My  heart  is 
stone.    What  you  were  .  .  .  what  you   were  .  .  , 


M  ADVERTISEMENT. 

I  might  have {Her  words  dry  up  in  her  throat.) 

SuFAN  {after  a  pause).  Oh  God,  you  women ! 
You  women  !  What  chance  does  a  man  get  ?  I've 
been  straight,  dead  straight.  ...  I've  got  there. 
Made  you  Lady  Sufan.  And  you  want  to  go.  .  .  . 
Just  as  I'm  on  top.  I've  never  heard  anything  like 
this.  {Rather  to  himself.)  I  know  they'll  leave 
you  if  you're  a  failure.  I've  heard  of  that  often 
enough.  But  when  you've  done  it !  Got  there. 
And  a  knighthood !  .  .  .  And  all  this  because  I 
used  to  play  the  fiddle.  Damn  the  thing !  .  .  . 
Look  here,  you  don't  mean  all  this.  I'll  try  and 
— try  and 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  mean  it  all.  We  must  separate, 
Luke. 

Sufan.  But — the  scandal.  Woman,  woman, 
the  scandal !    Do  you  want  to  ruin  me  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Ruin  you  ?  Won't  it  be  something 
of  an  advertisement  ? 

Sufan.  Advertisement,  advertisement !  Yes, 
yes.  But  advertisement  of  the  wrong  sort.  Good 
heavens,  yes !  A  man  who  sells  patent  medicines 
has  got  to  lead  a  pure  Ufe  and  so  have  all  his  family. 
The  public  insists  on  it.  They'll  give  a  Cabinet 
Minister  a  fairly  wide  margin,  but  the  man  who  sells 
a  com-killer  has  got  to  go  straight.  Do  you  remem- 
ber old  Bilthorpe  of  Bilthorpe's  Blood  Purifier  ? 
His  son,  only  his  son,  mind  you,  got  divorced  and 
old  Bilthorpe's  sales  dropped  a  miUion  bottles.  .  .  . 
You  leave  me  and,  by  Heaven,  you'll  go  near  smash- 
ing me. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  There  would  be  poetic  justice  in 
that. 

Sufan.  What  do  you  mean  ?  Justice  ?  You'd 
desert  me  and  ruin  me  at  the  same  time  ?  Ellen, 
you've  turned  a  very  devil. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  don't  believe  it  would  have  any 
effect  of  the  sort. 

Sufan.    Wouldn't  it?    Half  the  religious  papers 


ADVERTISEMENT.  87 

would  stop  their  "  advt."  at  once,  and  they're  far 
away  the  best  medium. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Well,  and  if  I  did  smash  the  busi- 
ness.    It's  all  it  deserves. 

Sufan.  AU  it  deserves  ?  Smash  a  good  busi- 
ness. Smash  a  good  business  ?  .  .  .  The  woman's 
going  off  her  head — clean  off  her  head. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Good  business !  .  .  .  Yes,  I've 
no  doubt  it  is.  .  .  .  But  it's  a  swindle  and  you 
know  it. 

Sufan  {flabbergasted).  A  swindle  !  Sufan's  Scalp 
Cream  a  swindle.  {He  runs  his  hands  through  his 
hair.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Yes.  A  vulgar  swindle.  You 
know  quite  well  the  stuff  is  worthless,  both  that  old 
beastly  Staminal  and  the  new  stuff,  though  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  to  find  they  are  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Sufan  {guiltily).    Nonsense  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.  They've  been  forced  on  the  public 
by  clever  advertising.  But  everybody  who  buys 
a  bottle  is  swindled — and  swindled  by  you ! 

Sufan.     Swindled  !     How  dare  you  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Yes.  Swindled !  You  charge 
half-a-crown  for  a  mess  that's  not  worth  more  than 
2d.     Isn't  that  the  truth  ? 

Sufan.  And  what  if  it  is  ?  The  stuff's  good  and 
it's  the  cost  of  the  advertising  that  puts  its  price  up. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Cost  of  advertising,  indeed !  If 
a  burglar  breaks  into  your  safe,  is  he  any  less  a 
criminal  because  he  uses  expensive  tools  ?  You've 
dragged  something  out  of  me  that  I  meant  to  keep 
to  myself.    But  perhaps  it's  for  the  best. 

Sufan  {deeply  hurt).  Oh,  I'm  a  swindler,  am  I  ? 
...  A  swindler  !  Do  you  hear  that,  Luke  Sufan  ? 
.  .  .  Here's  a  woman  leaving  a  man  because  he's 
a  swindler.  .  .  .  First  time  in  history,  Luke,  as 
long  as  he  was  a  successful  swindler.  .  .  .  {Suddenly 
he  swoops  down  on  his  wife  and  shouts.)  Look  here, 
woman,  no  more  Ues.    Where  are  you  going  ? 


88  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Where? 

SuFAN.    Yes  where  ?  .  .  .    Who  to  ?  .  .  . 

{She  turns  with  revulsion  from  him.  He  watches  for 
a  moment  and  then  he  seizes  her  arm  and  leads  her 
to  the  'portrait  of  Seton.) 

What  would  he  have  said  to  this? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  have  already  told  you  that  I 
won't  have  my  boy  dragged  in. 

Sufan.  "  My  boy."  "  My  boy."  Not  so  much 
of  the  "  my  boy."  (He  roars.)  Our  boy !  .  .  . 
Do  you  hear  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {frightened).    Well — our  boy. 

Sufan.  What  would  he  have  said  ?  Ah,  I  know 
he  didn't  think  much  of  me.  I  dare  say  I've  got 
you  to  thank  for  that.  He  looked  down  on  the  old 
patent  medicine  merchant.  And  where  is  he  now  ? 
You  know  what  the  Book  says  :  "  The  eye  that 
mocketh  at  his  father  .  .  .  the  ravens  of  the  valley 
shall  pick  it  out  and  the  young  eagles  shall  eat  it." 
Do  you  ever  think  of  that,  you  who  taught  him  to 
despise  me  ?  But  what  about  the  knighthood, 
eh  ?  That  would  have  helped  him  with  his  pals. 
He  wouldn't  have  been  ashamed  of  me  now.  But 
what  would  he  have  thought  of  his  mother  ?  Eh  ? 
What  do  those  army  gentry  think  of  chaps  whose 
mothers  run  away  from  their  husbands  ?  Woman, 
if  he  were  alive,  he'd  curse  you  for  this,  and  you 
know  it. 

Mrs,  Sufan.  I  think  I  know  what  my  boy  would 
have  thought. 

Sufan  {sneering).  Oh,  he  was  very  much  your 
property,  wasn't  he  ?  All  for  you,  and  all  that. 
None  of  his  father's  qualities,  thank  God,  eh  ?  Isn't 
that  it  ? 

Mrs,  Sufan.  I'll  tell  you  this — that  Seton  earned 
the  knighthood  for  you.  You'd  never  have  got  it 
for  money  alone — money  made  as  you  made  it. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  8« 

That  boy's  heroic  death  was  necessary  for  your 
glory. 

SuFAN  {fiercely  and  under  his  breath).  Don't  dare 
say  that.     I'd  sooner  have  died  than  he. 

Mrs.  Sufan  {after  a  pause).  Yes  ...  I  beUeve 
that.  .  .  .  Yes.  I  beheve  that.  {She  is  sincere. 
The  knowledge  adds  to  her  agony.) 

Sufan.  And  if  his  death  did  help  his  father ! 
Have  you  anything  to  say  against  that  ?  Would 
any  natural  wife  complain  at  that  ?  Don't  hide 
your  head  there  grizzUng.  Just  listen  to  me.  You're 
going  to  leave  me.  Well,  I  can't  stop  you.  You 
can  go  at  once — go  at  once — do  you  hear.  And 
you'll  starve  !    Not  one  penny  do  you  get  from  me. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    I  do  not  want  it.    I  shall  not  starve. 

Sufan.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  What's 
the  good  of  you  ?  You  can't  work.  You  haven't 
got  a  halfpenny — or  you  hadn't  when  I  married  you. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  shall  not  starve.  I  have  enough 
to  Hve  on. 

Sufan.    Where  the  devil  did  you  get  it  from  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {hesitatingly).  It  is  no  business  of 
yours  now. 

Sufan.  Yes,  it  is.  And  you  shall  tell  me.  Tell 
me  now,  now,  now,  right  away — or  I'll  have  every 
inch  of  your  room  searched. 

(Mrs.  Sufan  winces.) 

Ah,  that  moved  you.  Perhaps  you'd  rather  there 
wasn't  a  search,  eh,  my  fine  lady  ?  .  .  .  Where 
does  the  money  come  from  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    From  an  old  friend. 

Sufan  {sneering).  An  old  friend.  An  old  friend  ! 
And  for  what  particular  reason,  pray,  does  the  old 
friend  give  money  to  the  wife  of  a  man  who's  prac- 
tically a  miUionaire  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {leaping  to  her  feet).  He  is  dead ! 
He  bequeathed  the  money  to  me. 

Sufan  {slightly  relieved,  for  this  is  plausible).    Oh  ! 


90  ADVERTISEMENT, 

And  why  wasn't  I  told  about  it  ?  Why  all  this 
secrecy  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  It  concerned  you  in  no  way.  It 
was  really  very  httle,  or  you'd  have  called  it  very 
Uttle.    I— I 

Sufan  (cruelly).    Go  on  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you 
— ^that  you  would  expect  to  be  told. 

Sufan.  Ah.  .  .  .  And  if  you  had  died  before 
me  it  would  of  course  have  been  a  pleasing  Uttle 
legacy  from  my  devoted  wife.  Husband  naturally 
not  expected  to  inquire  where  the  money  comes 
from.    Oh  dear  no. 

Mrs.  Sufan  {hastily) .    It  wsisn't  meant  to  go  to 

[She  stops,  recognizing  the  danger.) 

Sufan.  It  wasn't  meant  to  go  to  whom  ?  Not 
to  me  !  That's  what  you  meant.  Then  whom,  pray, 
would  it  have  gone  to  ? 

{She  does  not  answer.) 

Why  not  your  husband  ?  Why  leave  it  to  any  one 
else  ?  You  have  no  relations.  Ah,  perhaps  it  was 
in  trust.    Answer.    Was  it  in  trust  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {very  fearfully).    Yes. 

Sufan.  And  for?  {He  looks  up  at  Seton's 
portrait.)  For  whom,  woman  ?  .  .  .  For  whom, 
woman  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {recovering  herself).  I  held  it  in  trust 
for  my  boy. 

Sufan.  "  For  my  boy."  For  Seton.  .  .  .  And 
who  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  damnable  dared  leave 
money  so  without  my  knowledge  or  consent  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  An  old  friend.  Major-General 
SterUng. 

Sufan.    Never  heard  of  him. 

Mrs.  Sufan.  You  have  never  met  him.  But 
you  have  heard  of  him. 

Sufan.  SterUng  ?  Sterling  ?  Ah,  there  was  a 
Colonel  SterUng. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  M 

Mrs.  Sufan.  He  was  a  Colonel  when  you  heard 
of  him.    Afterwards  he  was  made  a  Major-General. 

Sufan  {knitting  his  brows).  Major-General  Ster- 
ling !  Ah-h,  yes !  Colonel  Sterling !  That  was 
the  snob  that  I  had  to  cut  out,  wasn't  it  ?  Your 
father  wanted  you  to  marry  him,  didn't  he  ?  Yes, 
yes.  And  you  very  nearly  did.  Very  fond  of  him 
you  were  too.  You  told  me  that.  How  charm- 
ingly sentimental !  And  the  fellow's  dead,  is  he  ? 
That's  a  pretty  good  job.  Dead,  eh  ?  When  did 
he  die  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    A  month  before  Seton. 

Sufan  (sharply).  You  connect  'em  up  pretty 
glibly,  don't  you  ?  Why  the  devil  can't  you  give 
the  date  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    In  December,  1914. 

(Sufan  goes  to  the  music  cabinet  and  gets  down  one 
of  the  Quarterly  Army  Lists,  the  one  immediately 
preceding  that  in  which  the  notification  of  Seton 's 
death  appears.) 

Sufan.    He'll  be  in  here  if  you're  not  lying. 

(Mrs.  Sufan  clenches  her  teeth.    Sufan  turns  up  the 
page  headed  "  Deaths.") 

Yes.  Right  enough.  "  SterUng,  Major-General 
Seton  Douglas,  C.B.,  retired  pay.  Reserve  of  Officers, 
on  the  3rd  of  December."  H'm.  {He  smiles.)  He 
had  a  lot  to  leave,  I'll  be — here !  Where  the  devil 
did  the  man  get  his  Christian  name  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {breathlessly).    What  ? 

Sufan.  His  Christian  name !  "  Seton."  Here, 
did  you  call  our  boy  after  him  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {stammering).    I — I — I 

Sufan  {on  the  edge  of  a  suspicion  which  terrifies 
him).    You  did,  didn't  you?     You  did? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Yes.    I 

Sufan  {roaring).  Well,  why  shouldn't  you? 
Why  shouldn't  you,  woman  ?    Boy's  got  to  have 


n  ADVERTISEMENT.  > 

a  name.  Call  him  after  an  old  friend  ?  Why  not  ? 
What  are  you  shaking  about  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan,  You're  frightening  me.  You're 
so  brutal. 

Sufan.  Brutal!  Bosh!  Why  wasn't  I  told? 
What  was  the  mystery  about  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  There  was  no  mystery.  I  didn't 
— I  didn't  mention  it  because  I  thought  you  might 
be  a  httle  jealous. 

Sufan  {trying  to  convince  himself).  Yes.  That's 
all  right.  That's  right  enough.  Very  natural. 
I'm  not  making  a  fuss  about  it.  Doesn't  matter 
what  the  boy  was  called.  Doesn't  matter  a  damn  ! 
I  didn't  care  what  he  was  christened  and  I  don't 
care  now. 

{He  crosses  moodily  to  the  fireplace  and  looks  up  at 
the  portrait  as  if  he  would  read  the  secret  of  the  awful 
suspicion  that  is  haunting  him,  and  returns  to  the 
table  where  the  Army  List  is.) 

So  it's  his  money,  eh  ?  Yes.  He's  dead  right 
enough.  "  SterUng,  Seton  Douglas  ...  on  the 
3rd  of  December  ...  at  Polperro,  Cornwall." 
{He  shuts  the  book  with  a  snap.  Suddenly  his  fea- 
tures undergo  a  great  change.)  Where  ?  {He  opens 
the  book  again.)  At  Polperro,  Cornwall  ?  Was  that 
where  he  Uved  permanently  ? 

{She  stares  at  him  terrified  as  to  how  to  answer.) 

Answer  me ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Yes. 

Sufan.  And  wasn't  it  to  Polperro  that  you  went 
when  you  left  my  house  ?  Wasn't  it  at  Polperro 
that  you  hid  from  me  those  two  months  ? 

(Mrs.  Sufan  is  dazed.    She  stares  at  him  in  utter 
terror  and  cannot  answer.) 

{At  this  precise  moment,  when  the  audience  is  worked 
up,  the  scene  is  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Adolf.) 


ADVERTISEMENT.  03 

Adolf.    Mr.  Pym  to  see  you,  sir. 
SUFAN   {angrily).    Send  him  away.     I   can't  see 
anybody.    {He  hustles  Adolf  out.) 

{His  arm  is  on  the  door  as  it  is  closing.  In  fact 
he  helps  to  close  it  with  a  snap.  Then,  like  a  re- 
leased falcon  he  swoops  down  on  his  prey  again.) 

Sufan  {with  his  hack  to  the  door).  Wasn't  it  at 
Polperro  that  you  hid  from  me  those  two  months  ? 

{He  asks  the  question  in  precisely  the  same  fierce, 
excited  tones  as  he  asked  it  before  Adolf's  entrance.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Yes. 

Sufan.    Was  he  there? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    He  was. 

Sufan.    And  you ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    I  stayed  at  his  house. 

Sufan.    What ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.  Listen !  I  had  practically  no 
money.  He  was  my  only  friend.  I  had  to  have 
shelter. 

Sufan.    Why  have  you  hidden  this  till  now  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    There  was  no  need  to  tell  you. 

Sufan.  You  lied  to  me.  You  said  you  sold 
some  jewellery  and  stayed  at  a  cottage.  Wouldn't 
that  have  been  a  cleaner  thing  to  do  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.  I  was  no  judge.  I  hid  as  a  hunted 
beast  hides.  You  had  hit  me.  You  don't  know 
the  strength  of  your  hand.  I  ran  away  to  where 
— to  where  there  was  some  one  who  might  fight  for 
me. 

Sufan  {shamed  at  the  memory).  I  know.  .  .  . 
Yet  you  came  back.    Did  he  want  you  to  go  back  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    You  can  guess. 

Sufan.    Yet   you   came   back.    Yet   you   came 

back.    And  in  a  few  months {He  looks  up  at 

Seton's  portrait.)  This  man.  Sterling,  was  a 
widower,  wasn't  he  ? 


m  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Yes. 

SuFAN.  He  was  willing  to  steal  another  man's 
wife.  You  would  not  agree.  Why?  .  .  .  Why? 
.  .  .  Oh  !  {Suddenly  losing  control  of  himself.)  This 
is  driving  me  mad.    Did  you  love  the  man  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    After  you  killed  my  love  for  you. 

Sufan.    Woman,  have  you  been  faithful  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan  {forcing  herself  to  lie).    Yes. 

Sufan.  There's  something  in  your  eyes.  You 
are  pitying  me.  I  swear  you  are  tr5dng  to  keep 
something  from  me — yes,  and  it's  for  my  sake. 
You're  lying,  and  you're  not  lying  to  shield  yourself. 

Mrs.  Sufan.    I  am  not  lying. 

Sufan.    Have  you  this  man's  portrait  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    No  ! 

(She  wears  a  locket,  containing  a  portrait  of  the  man, 
attached  to  a  chain  under  her  dress.  At  his  question 
she  involuntarily  raises  her  hands  to  her  breast  where 
the  locket  is.) 

Sufan.    That's  a  lie.     If  you  loved  him  you'd 
have  his  portrait.    Why  did  you  raise  your  hands  ? 
Mrs.  Sufan.    What  do  you  mean  ? 
Sufan.    Pull  out  that  chain. 
Mrs.  Sufan.    I  will  not. 
Sufan.    Pull  it  out. 

{She  draws  back,  but  he  roughly  seizes  her  and  whips 
out  the  locket,  breaking  the  chain.) 

Mrs.  Sufan  {wailing  in  agony).  Luke,  Luke,  Luke, 
give  me  my  locket. 

Sufan  {opening  the  locket  and  looking  at  the  picture). 
It's  Seton.  {He  says  it  very  quietly  with  some  sur- 
prise and  not  a  little  relief.)  It's  Seton.  It's  very 
good.  Why  didn't  you  show  it  to  me  before  ?  .  .  . 
What's  the  matter  ? 

{The  woman  is  trembling  with  terror.) 

It's  Seton,  isn't  it  ?     {He  looks  at  it  again.) 


ADVERTISEMENT.  95 

Mrs.  Sufan  (breathless).    Yes.    It's  Seton. 
SuFAN  (his  jaw  dropping).    Got  fun  die  oves  !     It 
is  not  my  boy. 

{The  locket  containing  the  portrait  drops  to  the  ground.) 

It  is  not  my  boy  .  .  .  [After  a  pause  he  goes  close 
to  his  wife.)  How  did  you  come  by  that  ?  {The 
tone  is  quiet  and  deeply  tragic.) 

Mrs.  Sufan.    He  bequeathed  it  to  me. 

Sufan.    It  is  his  picture. 

Mrs.  Sufan  {almost  inaudible).    Yes. 

Sufan.    At  the  same  age  ? 

Mrs.  Sufan.    Yes. 

Sufan  {huskily).    He  was  the  father  of  your  son. 

{She  does  not  answer.    The  shuddering  man  endeavours 
to  get  control  of  himself.) 

Helf  mir  in  diesem  moment,  oh  Got !  Helf  mir !  .  .  . 
{He  turns  his  eyes  from  the  woman.)  Go  from  my 
sight,  you  unclean  woman !  I  was  unworthy  of 
you,  was  I  ?  You  would  have  gone,  leaving  me 
befooled  for  ever.  You  would  have  humiUated  me 
before  the  world,  would  you  ?  That  was  to  be  your 
atonement.    Oh,  how  vile  !    How  vile  ! 

Mrs.  Sufan  {sobbing  miserably).  I  tried  to  spare 
you.     I  tried  to  spare  you. 

Sufan.  Spare  me.  {His  voice  rises.)  You  gave 
me  the  boy  to  love,  to  own,  to  cherish,  to  worship, 
and  all  the  years  you  were  laughing  in  my  face. 
How  you  must  have  sniggered  when  I  took  him  in 
my  arms.  What  comedy  for  you  when  my  heart 
bled  at  his  death. 

{He  raises  his  hands  as  if  to  grip  and  strangle  her. 
The  fingers  work  convulsively  while  the  woman 
crouches.    Suddenly  he  clenches  his  hands  and  prays.) 

Lord  God  of  Israel,  I  give  this  woman  into  Thy 
hands.  Thy  servant's  heart  is  dead  and  he  is  pas- 
sionless.   Take  her  and  deal  with  her  in  accord  with 


M  ^     ADVERTISEMENT. 

her  crime.  ♦  Dos  gerechtigkeit  fun  vater  iz  dos 
gerechtigkeit  fun  got.  Un  der  wos  iz  bereubt  und 
verfuhrt  geworen,  der  schreit. 

{The  woman,  who  has  been  watching  him  in  fear  and 
awe,  slinks  slowly  from  the  room.) 

Bund  zeine  hend  um  er  soil  nit  kennen  hargenen, 
und  zein  zung  er  soil  nit  kennen  schilten.  Oh  Got ! 
mechtiger  got,  helf  mir,  helf  mir,  helf  mir. 


Curtain. 


•  The  cause  of  the  father  is  the  cause  of  God.  It  is  one 
who  has  been  robbed  and  cheated  who  cries  out.  Tie  his 
hands  that  he  may  not  kill  and  his  tongue  that  he  may  not 
curse.     Lord  God  of  hosts,  help  me,  help  me,  help  me  I 


\ 


ACT  IV 

Scene. — On  the  leads  of  a  house  in  Hampsiead.  Some 
years  have  elapsed  since  Act  III. 

The  right  wall  is  the  wall  of  the  house  and  in  the  centre 
of  it  are  French  windows  to  which  steps  ascend. 
The  back  and  left  walls  are  of  trelliswork  covered 
with  creeper,  now  yellow  and  wine  red,  as  it  is  late 
September.  In  the  centre  of  the  leads  stands  a  booth, 
such  as  is  erected  by  Jews  in  England  during  the 
Feast  of  Tabernacles.  The  booth  is  Utile  more  than 
a  canopy,  erected  on  four  posts,  sufficiently  large  to 
cover  a  dinner  party  of  four.  The  roof  and  walls  are 
lightly  constructed  of  branches  of  trees,  plants,  fruits, 
flowers  and  leaves  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  be  quite 
impenetrable  to  wind  and  rain  or  starlight.  Beneath 
it  is  a  small  table  and  three  white  wickerwork  chairs. 
A  small  table  and  another  chair  stand  outside  the 
booth  slightly  to  the  left  of  it.  There  are  flower  boxes 
about  containing  evergreens  and  such  flowers  as  are 
in  bloom  in  England  late  in  September. 

It  is  4  p.m.  on  a  bright,  clear  day,  the  blue  sky  showing 
above  the  trelliswork  surmounting  the  back  and  left 
walls. 

[On  the  rising  of  the  curtain  a  pert  Maidservant 
enters  through  French  windows  carrying  a  tray  of  tea- 
things.  She  goes  to  the  table  under  the  booth  and 
prepares  it  for  a  meal.  The  sound  of  a  violin  being 
played  in  accompaniment  with  a  piano  comes  through 
the  French  windows  in  the  wall  R.  The  violin  is 
being  played  very  beautifully.  It  is  the  same  air 
97  c 


M  ADVERTISEMENT. 

that  Mrs.  Sufan  played  towards  the  opening  of  Act  I, 
viz.  Rubinstein's  Romance  in  E  flat.  When  the 
Maidservant  has  finished  laying  the  table  she 
picks  up  some  watercress  from  the  table,  puts  it  in 
her  mouth,  and,  chewing  it,  goes  towards  the  French 
windows.) 

Maid.  Tea's  ready.  .  .  .  Tea — is — ready !  {The 
music  stops.    Exit  Maid,  through  upper  window.) 

(Luke  Sufan  appears  in  the  lower  French  windows, 
carrying  a  violin  and  bow  in  his  hands.  His  hair 
and  beard  are  going  prematurely  white,  which  gives 
him  a  patriarchal  appearance.  His  walk  is  not  so 
erect  as  it  was  and  his  big  figure  seems  to  have  shrunk. 
He  wears  a  scull-cap,  an  old  darkfiannel  suit  and 
roomy  slippers.  Round  his  collar  is  an  old  scarf  tied 
in  a  very  ragged  and  slovenly  bow  in  front.) 

Sufan  {as  he  descends  the  steps).  Worse  than  ever, 
worse  than  ever,  Adolf.  You  were  never  better  than 
the  pianola  and  now  you're  worse.  {He  places  violin 
and  bow  on  the  tea  table.) 

(Adolf  appearing  at  the  French  windows.) 

Adolf.    Then  why  don't  you  use  the  pianola  ? 

(Adolf's  hair  has  left  him  for  ever.  His  head  is  like  a 
white  billiard  ball  and  not  much  larger.  He  keeps 
fairly  straight,  but  he  has  certainly  shrivelled.  His 
smile  has  become  yellow  and  he  is,  therefore,  more 
sinister  of  aspect  than  ever.  He  wears  a  scull-cap, 
an  alpaca  jacket  and  an  old  black  dress  tie  that  once 
belonged  to  his  master.  Resting  on  his  nose  are 
spectacles  with  steel  rims  that  have  gone  black.) 

Sufan.    You  must  earn  your  wages,  Adolf. 
Adolf  {snappily).    I've  never  done  that,  eh? 
Sufan.    Shut  up ! 

{They  are  now  both  standing  by  chairs  under  tlie  booth.) 

"  Blessed  art  Thou  who  hast  sanctified  us  by  Thy 


ADVERTISEMENT.  M 

commandments  and  hast  commanded  us  to  dwell  in 
the  booth." 

{They  sit  down  and  Adolf  pours  out  tea  for  both.) 

Remember  that  the  Feast  of  Tabernacles  is  one  of 
rejoicing,  Adolf.    And  be  amiable  ! 

Adolf.  I  can't  be  amiable.  You're  alwa}^  bait- 
ing me. 

SuFAN.  Sour  old  devil !  Have  you  washed  the 
dog? 

Adolf  (snappily).    Yes. 

SuFAN.    Posted  my  letters  ? 

Adolf.    Yes. 

SuFAN.    Fed  the  canary? 

Adolf.    Yes.    It's  got  enough  for  a  blasted  eagle . 

SuFAN.    Found  the  tortoise  ? 

Adolf.    No — and  I  hope  I  never  shall. 

SuFAN.    You  never  liked  that  tortoise. 

Adolf.  He  was  too  old  and  silly.  Once  I  nearly 
broke  my  neck  over  him. 

SuFAN.  Pity  you  didn't.  You're  too  old  to  live. 
Pass  the  watercress. 

Adolf  (pushing  it  over) .  That  hussy's  been  stealing 
it  again. 

SuFAN.    Where  would  you  Mke  to  be  buried  ? 

Adolf  (cackling).  Ha !  ha !  You  always  would 
have  your  joke. 

Sufan.  Joke  ?  Have  you  ordered  that  new  music 
of  Debussy's  ? 

Adolf  (furiously).  Yes.  And  I've  scrubbed  the 
floors,  cleaned  the  windows,  cooked  the  food,  made 
the  beds,  swept  the  chimneys  and  cleared  out  the 
drains.    WTiat  more  do  you  want  ? 

Sufan.  Lazy  devil !  And  all  of  it  done  badly. 
As  badly  as  you  play  the  piano. 

Adolf.    I'm  too  old  for  music. 

Sufan.  Too  old  for  music  !  One  can't  be  too  okL 
Nor  can  one  be  too  young. 


100  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Adolf.  Didn't  we  have  enough  of  that  when  we 
were  young  men  ? 

SuFAN.    It  was  all  the  world  to  us  then. 

Adolf.  Because  we  knew  no  better.  We  soon 
found  out  a  better  game,  didn't  we,  Luke  ? 

Sufan.  We  thought  it  was  a  better  game.  And 
so  did  Pym  and  Woods  and  all  that  gang. 

Adolf.  It  was  a  better  game.  Weren't  you  happy 
then  ?    Are  you  happy  now  ? 

Sufan.    You're  right.    I  was  happy  then. 

Adolf.  And  now  you  are  wretched.  Why  ?  Be- 
cause you  sit  and  mope  and  do  nothing.  Why  did 
you  give  up  work  ?  You  refuse  a  knighthood  and 
play  the  fool  with  your  business,  and  then  for  years 
you  idle. 

Sufan.  Why  should  I  work  ?  You  know  the 
fortune  I  got  for  the  business. 

Adolf  {rubbing  his  hands).  Yes,  and  now  the 
company  has  gone  smash.    What  a  bit  of  luck  ! 

Sufan.  It  was  bound  to  go  smash — bound  to  be 
found  out  Uke  the  other  stuff. 

Adolf.  Well,  well,  one  down,  t'other  come  up. 
You  could  do  it  again.  That's  what  Mr.  Woods  and 
Mr.  Pym  are  always  saying. 

Sufan.    I  suppose  I  could.     In  fact  I  know  I  could. 

Adolf.  Then  why  don't  you.  Here's  your  chance 
with  this  cigarette  Mr.  Pym  has  got  hold  of.  Go  back, 
Luke,  go  back  and  be  happy  again. 

Sufan.     I  could  go  back,  but  should  I  be  happy  ? 

Adolf.  Happy — happy  working  up  a  good  busi- 
ness !     Luke,  what's  come  over  you  ? 

Sufan.  Perhaps  it's  because  I  know  it's  a  dirty 
business. 

Adolf  {horrified).  A  dirty  business  !  Business — 
business  dirty  !  How  can  it  be  dirty  if  it  pays  good 
money  ? 

Sufan  {smiling).  What  is  it  that  the  end  doesn't 
justify,  Adolf  ? 

Adolf.    See  here,  Luke.    God  made  the  man  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  101 

Yes.  God  made  the  grain  ?  {He  picks  up  the  loaf 
of  bread.)  Yes.  Then  God  made  the  weights  and 
measures.    Go  and  use  them. 

SuFAN  {smiling).  This  cigarette  belongs  to  Pym 
and  Woods,  doesn't  it  ? 

Adolf.  Yes,  Luke.  You  can  have  a  third  share. 
But  they  want  your  name  and  the  money  to  advertise 
it. 

SuFAN.  I  thought  that  would  be  part  of  the  bar- 
gain. Money  to  advertise  it !  Am  I  to  start  all  that 
traffic  over  again  ? 

Adolf.  Never  mind  what  you  think  about  it. 
It's  work — it's  business.  It'll  fill  your  mind — keep 
you  aUve.  What  business  has  a  man  in  his  prime 
pottering  about  a  garden  and  scraping  a  fiddle  ? 

SuFAN.  What's  the  special  virtue  of  this  precious 
fag? 

Adolf.  They'll  tell  you  to-day.  I  expect  them 
at  any  minute.  You  go  back,  Luke,  and  show  them. 
They  sneered  in  the  city  when  you  went  out.  Go 
back  and  go  to  the  top  again.  MaJce  another  fortune. 
You  could  make  'em  gasp  if  you  Uke. 

SuFAN.  It's  tempting.  It's  very  tempting.  I 
know  that  hard  work  would  ease  some  of  my  memories. 
To  leave  the  music  and  go  back  to — business  !  Can 
I  do  it  ?  The  older  you  get,  Adolf,  the  more  music 
you  should  want.  I  seem  to  want  the  things  I  loved 
in  my  youth  more  and  more  every  day.  I  hke  to 
think  every  one  does.  If  she  would,  Adolf,  if  only 
she  would. 

Adolf.  Don't  talk  of  her !  She  has  brought 
curses  enough  upon  you. 

SuFAN.  For  what  I've  suffered  I  have  only  myself 
to  blame. 

Adolf.  No  need  to  tell  me  that.  You  forgot  the 
promises  of  Isaiah  and  the  injunctions  of  Ezra.  You 
married  a  Gentile.  No  good  can  come  of  a  sinful 
marriage. 

SuFAN.    She  is  the  wife  of  my  covenant.    I  sup- 


102  ADVERTISEMENT. 

pose  I  have  sinned,  but  I  have  paid.    God  should  give 
her  back  to  me. 

Adolf  {angrily).  You  blaspheme !  She  may 
come,  but  God  can  never  give  her  back. 

SuFAN.  What  a  narrow,  fanatical  old  fool  you  are, 
Adolf. 

Adolf.  Ah !  You  are  the  English  Jew  all  over. 
Just  so  much  of  the  rehgion  as  suits  you.  I  know 
you. 

SuFAN.  Then  if  you  know  me  don't  irritate  me. 
I  never  thought  she  had  it  in  her  nature  to  be  cruel. 
She  left  me — yes — but  that  was  because  she  was  so 
sensitive  of  the  wrong  she  had  done  me.  It  doesn't 
seem  natural. 

Adolf.  Women  are  hke  boiled  eggs — either  hard 
or  soft.    She's  a  hard  one. 

SuFAN.  I  haven't  asked  much.  Only  that  we 
should  come  together  for  the  last  few  years,  I 
wanted  her,  Adolf,  even  before  I  asked.  She  ought 
to  Usten  now,  now  when  we're  both  soon  to  be  chil- 
dren again.  I  don't  understand  her  never  answering. 
That's  not  Uke  her.  Six  letters  and  all  of  them  re- 
gistered.   You  did  register  them,  Adolf,  didn't  you  ? 

Adolf.    Certainly,  Luke. 

SuFAN.    To  the  Qualtroughs'  house,  eh  ? 

Adolf.    Yes,  Luke. 

SuFAN.  To  ignore  them  altogether  !  It's  so  un- 
feeUng,  Adolf,  and  she  was  never  that. 

Adolf.  I  don't  know.  You  never  get  to  the  in- 
side of  a  woman's  heart.  That's  why  I  never  married. 
They  make  you  think  they're  tender,  but  I  believe 
they're  all  tough,  really.    Tough — tough  as  leather. 

Sufan.     Quarrels  mustn't — mustn't  last. 

Adolf  {sneering).    Quarrels  ! 

SuFAN.  Aye.  Call  it  that.  Why  shouldn't  I  call 
it  that  ? 

Adolf.  Woman  disgraced  herself.  Disgraced  you. 
Fooled  you.  Ruined  you.  You  weren't  good 
enough  for  her.    Too  vulgar.    Have  you  forgotten  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


103 


Quarrels !  (He  makes  an  exclamation  of  disgust.) 
SuFAN.  Yes.  I  have  forgotten.  She  has  not. 
There's  a  verse  in  the  Bible,  Adolf,  about  this.  What 
is  it  ?  Ah,  but  she  didn't  like  me  to  quote  the  Bible. 
I  remember  that.  I  did  pour  it  on  her  a  bit  Chris- 
tians are  different  about  the  Bible,  Adolf.  They  hke 
to  feel  it.  They  don't  Uke  anyone  to  be  gUb  with  it. 
I'm  old  enough  to  understand  that.  .  .  .  How 
different  we  were  ! 

Adolf.  Well,  you  know  her  now.  You  know 
what  her  heart's  hke.  You  make  me  sick  the  way 
you  keep  whining.  Where's  the  man  that  was  in  you, 
Luke? 

I'm  all  alone. 

Haven't  I  stood  by  you  ? 

You! 

Yes — a  friend  ! 

A  friend ! 

Well,   a  servant — a  servant,   a  faithful 


SUFAN. 

Adolf. 

SUFAN. 

Adolf. 

SUFAN. 

Adolf. 
servant. 

SUFAN. 


You're  neither. 


A  friend  !    A  servant ! 
You're  a  habit. 

Adolf  {in  a  bullying  tone).  Never  mind.  I'm  all 
you've  got  left.  And  what's  my  reward  ?  Eternal 
whining  about  the  woman  who  wrecked  you.  Don't 
talk  about  her  any  more.  Do  you  hear  ?  I  won't  hear 
about  her.  I  hate  her.  I  hate  her.  She's  a  goy  and 
she  has  brought  a  curse  upon  us. 

(The  Maidservant  shows  in  Willoughby  Woods 
and  Bert  Pym.  The  passing  of  the  years  has  left 
its  mark  on  these  two  men.) 

Maidservant  (contemptuously,  reading  from  cards). 
Mr.  W.  Woods  and  Mr.  B.  Pym ! 

(She  goes  to  the  table  under  the  booth  and  clears  up  the 
tea-things,  first  taking  another  pinch  of  watercress, 
which  she  chews.) 

Pym.    Well,  my  boy !    (Slapping  Sufan  on  the 


104  ADVERTISEMENT. 

back.)    Wonderful   weather   for   the   time   of  year, 
what  ?     Here  we  are  once  more — under  the  shade 
of  the  sheltering  palm.     {He  begins  to  warble.)     "  Oh, 
my  Dolores,  queen  of  the  eastern  seas." 
Woods.    How  are  you  keeping,  Sufan  ? 

(SuFAN  shakes  hands  with  both  of  them.) 

Guess  this  is  the  first  time  I've  seen  a  pergola  on  a  roof. 
{Indicating  booth.) 

Adolf  {gravely).  This  is  the  Feast  of  Tabernacles, 
Mr.  Woods. 

Woods,    Feast  of  Tabernacles  ? 

Sufan.  Yes.  Every  Jew  who  has  space  for  it 
must  during  the  seven  days  of  the  festival  eat  his 
meals  and  receive  his  friends  in  a  booth,  if  he  does  not 
altogether  live  in  it.  It  is  commanded  in  the  Mosaic 
Law. 

Woods.  I  see.  I  see.  That's  why  we're  shown 
out  on  the  tiles,  eh  ? 

Pym.     I  suppose  it  commemorates  something. 

Sufan.  It  commemorates  the  way  in  which  the 
Israelites  lived  in  booths  during  the  journey  through 
the  wilderness. 

Woods.    Yes,  yes.    Very  interesting. 

{Exit  Maid  with  tray  of  tea-things.) 

Pym.  You  seem  to  have  mugged  the  Bible  up  all 
right  in  your  time,  Sufie. 

Sufan.  Well,  bonnies,  sit  down.  What  can  I  do 
for  you  ? 

Pym.  It's  your  money  we  want.  {He  strikes 
the  attitude  of  the  poster.) 

Sufan.    Cigarettes,  Adolf  says. 

Woods.  Yes,  Sufan,  and  it's  some  notion.  {He 
produces  a  tin  box  and  places  it  on  the  table.) 

Sufan.    What's  the  quality  ? 

Pym.  Listen,  Sufan.  We've  done  it.  I  bought 
the  recipe  off  a  drunken  doctor  for  twenty-five  quid 
and  it's  worth  a  million.    Ever  had  Wind  under  the 


ADVERTISEMENT  105 

Heart  ?  'Nor  have  I.  But  this  cures  it.  Ever  had 
Appendicitis  ?  Nor  have  I.  This  prevents  you  from 
getting  it.  Ever  had  Fullness  after  Meals  ?  Well, 
this  cigarette  gives  that  the  knock. 

SuFAN.  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  A  medi- 
cinal cigarette  ? 

Woods.  Precisely.  And  do  you  know  what 
we  want  to  call  it  ?  Why,  "  Sufan's  Staminal 
Cigarette." 

SuFAN  {stroking  his  beard  and  not  a  little  amused). 
I  see.     I  see.    That's  where  I  come  in. 

Woods.  Just  so — your  name,  and,  of  course,  some 
capital.    But  it's  a  cinch. 

Pym.  Listen  to  me,  Sufie.  Is  your  indigestion 
obstinate  ?  Smoke  Sufan's  Staminal  Cigarettes. 
Why  take  Salts  ?  Smoke  a  Double  S  Cigarette  before 
breakfast.  Salts  taste  nasty.  People  would  much 
rather  smoke.  And  then  look  at  the  woman  whose 
parents  or  husbands  won't  let  'em  smoke.  All  they've 
got  to  do  is  to  get  Liver  and  Kidney  trouble  and 
get  the  doctor  to  order  'em  these. 

Woods.  And  this  drunken  quack  we  got  it  off  says 
they're  just  dandy  for  rheumatism  and  gout. 

SuFAN  (amused).  Not  much  they  don't  cure,  is 
there,  bonny  ?  Well,  let's  try  them.  Opium,  I  sup- 
pose. 

{Each  one  except  Adolf  takes  a  cigarette  and  lights  it.) 

Pym  {rather  uneasily).  Of  course,  you've  got  to 
get  accustomed  to  them. 

Sufan  {after  one  big  draw  which  he  puffs  through 
his  nostrils).    My  God  !     {He  stamps  the  cigarette  out.) 

Woods.  Perhaps  you've  got  a  specially  bad  one. 
Try  another. 

Sufan.  Not  for  a  kingdom.  Phew,  what  an 
odour ! 

Pym.  Well,  my  boy,  they've  got  to  be  nasty. 
People  don't  think  medicine's  any  good  if  it  tastes 
nice. 


KM  ADVERTISEMENT. 

SUFAN.    What's  in  'em  ?     Garlic  ? 
Adolf.    May  I  try  one  ? 

SuFAN.  Certainly,  Adolf.  If  they  don't  kill  you, 
they  won't  kill  anybody 

(Adolf  takes  a  cigarette,  lights  it  carefully  and  smokes 
thoughtfully.    They  all  watch  him.) 

Woods.    Well,  Adolf? 

Adolf.    They  are  soothing,  very  soothing. 

Pym  {slapping  his  knee).  There  you  are.  Adolf 
shall  give  us  the  first  testimonial.  "  Old  man  of 
seventy  feels  like  seventeen."  Tell  you  what  ? 
Old  Adolf  shall  get  married.  That  would  be  a  stunt, 
Woodsey. 

Woods.    Sure ! 

Pym.  The  Staminal  Cigarette  Wedding.  Septua- 
genarian renews  his  youth. 

(Adolf  commences  to  cough  violently.  The  other  three 
roar  with  laughter.  Adolf  looks  around  very  ner- 
vously and  then  makes  a  doleful  exit  through  the 
French  windows,  still  coughing.) 

Sufan  {laughing).  Oh,  tell  'em  it  cures  a  broken 
neck.  They'll  believe  you.  Why  die  at  all  ?  Collapse 
of  the  death-rate.  Consternation  of  the  undertaking 
trade.    The  old,  old  game  ! 

Pym.  Yes,  Sufie,  and  how  easy.  Just  a  good 
advertising  campaign 

{Enter  the  Maidservant  through  the  French  windows.) 

Maidservant.  A  Mr.  Qualtrough  has  called  to 
see  you,  sir. 

{There  is  silence) 

Sufan  {astonished).    Mr.  Qualtrough ? 

Maidservant  {resignedly).  Mr.  Ker-waltrough. 
{She  puts  her  hand  on  her  left  hip.) 

Woods.  We  met  the  chap  of  that  name  years  ago 
at  your  house. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  107 

Pym.  That's  right.  He's  a  well-known  novelist 
now. 

SuFAN.  Qualtrough  !  Why  should  he  come  ? 
(To  the  Maidservant.)  Yes,  yes,  I'll  see  him. 
Ask  him  to  wait  a  few  moments,  will  you  ? 

{Exit  Maidservant.) 

Woods.    Say  the  word  if  we're  in  the  way,  Sufan. 

SuFAN.  Well,  bonnies,  I  shouldn't  have  kept  you 
so  long,  because — I'm  not  on. 

Woods.    You're  not  on  ! 

Pym.  Why,  there's  a  fortune  in  it  properly 
advertised,  isn't  there  ? 

SuFAN.  There  may  be,  but  I'm  not  on.  I've 
done  with  that  game,  bonnies,  done  with  advertise- 
ment and  all  its  uses  and  abuses.  Sorry  to  dis- 
appoint you,  but  I'm  not  going  back. 

Pym.  Not  going  back !  You  won't  have  to 
work.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  lie  in  a  hammock 
and  advertise. 

Sufan.  Yes,  yes,  advertise !  Advertise !  No 
need  to  tell  me  how  to  do  it.  I  made  my  money 
that  way,  but  it's  not  a  particularly  wholesome  way, 
bonnies,  is  it  ? 

Woods.  Not  wholesome.  What  do  you  mean, 
Sufan  ?     It's  a  fair  trade. 

Sufan.  It's  a  foul  trade.  We  all  three  know  it, 
bonnies.  And  cigarettes,  too  !  As  if  that  mcirket 
was  not  sufficiently  poisonous  already.  You'll  find 
the  beastly  "ad."  in  any  paper.  Ten  for  twopence 
or  threepence.  Smoke  'em  and  let  your  kids  smoke 
'em.  Kill  yourself  and  kill  your  kids.  Ye  gods,  is 
there  anything  in  the  world  so  unscrupulous  as  the 
commercial  side  of  a  newspaper ! 

Pym.  You're  a  nice  one  to  talk.  You  took  plenty 
of  advantage  of  the  press  in  your  day. 

Sufan.  I  did.  I  did.  And  you  lured  me  on. 
I  was  a  swindler.  I  made  my  money  by  swindling, 
thanks  to  your  encouragement.    But  we're  not  the 


108  ADVERTISEMENT. 

greatest  sinners,  bonnies.  It's  the  press  which  creates 
advertisers,  which  is  principally  to  blame.  "  Adver- 
tise," "  advertise,"  they  scream  at  you  without  the 
slightest  regard  for  the  morality  of  the  advertiser's 
trade.  They  don't  care  a  brass  farthing  what  a  man 
sells  so  long  as  he  buys  space. 

Woods.  That's  a  he.  There's  not  a  decent  news- 
paper in  London  that  would  take  a  crook  "  ad." 
And  not  an  agent  of  standing  that  would  handle  such 
business. 

SuFAN.  Is  there  a  paper  in  London  that  refused 
"  ads."  of  my  two  swindles  ?  Is  there  a  paper  in 
London  that  would  refuse  "  ads."  of  this  ?  {He  taps 
the  cigarette  box.)  Oh,  I  know  the  press  will  some- 
times keep  out  a  bookmaker  or  the  Uttle  quacks  that 
can't  spend  much.  I  know  there  are  exceptions, 
bonny.  But  the  big  quacks  can  advertise  as  they 
hke.  People  used  to  say  that  the  war  would  weed 
out  the  charlatans  and  confidence  gentry.  But 
they  guessed  too  soon.  The  war  couldn't  stop  adver- 
tisers bossing  editors. 

Pym  {impudently).    Bow-wow ! 

SuFAN.  And  you  are  the  men  who  cultivate  the 
whole  rotten  business,  instigate  it,  develop  it. 

Pym  {mockingly).  Once  I  was  a  fireman  and  now 
I  am  saved. 

SuFAN.  The  more  it  flourishes  the  better  for  you. 
You've  spotted  some  fresh  swag.  You  want  to  start 
me  off  again  with  a  new  skeleton  key.    I  won't  go. 

(Pym  commences  to  whistle  airily.) 

I  don't  blame  you,  mind.  You're  in  it  and  you  can't 
get  out  of  it.  I  was  in  it,  and  I'm  out  of  it.  By 
Heaven,  I  don't  go  back. 

Woods.  No  need  to  get  fresh.  Cut  the  talk  out. 
Say  yes  or  no  to  me.    I'm  a  business  man. 

SuFAN.  I've  said  no.  Good-bye,  bonnies.  I 
bear  you  no  ill  will.    But  I  simply  have  no  use  now 


ADVERTISEMENT.  109 

for  anything  you're  interested  in.  {He  turns  to  his 
violin.)  There  are  things  worth  more  to  me  than 
all  the  get-rich-quick  dodges  in  the  world,  {He 
joints  upwards.)  It's  the  Feast  of  the  Ingathering. 
The  produce  has  been  gathered  in  and  the  people 
rejoice  before  the  Lord  for  the  blessings  which  He 
has  granted  to  them. 

Woods  {muttering).  Absolutely  "nobody  home," 
Bert.  Reckon  we'd  better  get  out  of  this  asylum 
right  away,     {He  moves  towards  the  French  windows.) 

Pym  {following  him).    I'm  with  you. 

SuFAN  {offering  him  his  hand).  We  can  shake 
before  we  split,  bonnies.  And  don't  forget  your 
cigarettes.  {He  hands  them  the  box.)  You  may  be 
right  about  the  fortune  in  them.  I  hope  you  make 
it,  but  {chuckling)  between  you  and  me  and  the  old 
fiddle  there,  a  cigarette  that  tastes  like  that  will  take 
some  selling. 

Woods.  Oh,  hell!  {Exeunt  Woods  and  Pym 
through  French  windows.  Sufan  returns  to  table, 
laughing). 

(QuALTROUGH  appears  at  the  French  windows.    He 
is  greyer  and  heavier,  having  quite  a  paternal  aspect.) 

Sufan.  Qualtrough !  Why,  bonny,  good  old 
bonny.  It's  great  to  see  you  again.  {He  puts  his 
hands  on  Qualtrough's  shoulders).  And  you're 
not  any  younger,  by  Jove.  I  hardly  knew  you.  How's 
your  wife  ?  I  heard  about  the  kiddie.  It  was  in 
The  Times,  wasn't  it  ?  Lucky  beggar.  And  the 
books  are  going  very  well,  I  see.  I  suppose  you're  a 
rich  man,  bonny.  Motor  cars,  eh  ?  And  a  villa 
on  the  Riviera.  What  it  is  to  be  young,  I'm  young 
when  I  sit  still.  I'm  only  old  when  I'm  walking  about. 
WeU,  I'm  reaUy  glad  to  see  you.  Any  news  ?  Won't 
you  sit  down  ? 

Qualtrough.  Sufan,  I  come  with  a  message 
from  your  wife. 

Sufan.    A  message  from  Ellen. 


IW  ADVERTISEMENT. 

QuALTROUGH  (sternly).    Yes. 
SUFAN    {deeply   moved).    Oh,    bonny,    at   last,    at 
last !    Has  she  been  ill  ?    Why  didn't  she  write  ? 


Why- 

QuALTROUGH.  Why  haven't  you  answered  her 
letters  ? 

SuFAN.  Her  letters !  Her  letters,  bonny !  I 
have  had  none. 

QuALTROUGH.    You  have  had  none ! 

SuFAN.  No,  bonny,  no.  No  letters.  You  don't 
really  mean  that  she  has  written  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  Several  times.  You  consistently 
failed  to  answer,  so  I  called  on  her  behalf  this  morn- 
ing.   You  were  out,  but  I  saw  Adolf. 

SuFAN  {puzzled).    He  said  nothing  to  me  about  it. 

QUALTROUGH.  He  Said  that  you  had  the  letters 
and  burnt  them. 

SuFAN.  What !  Burnt  them !  Why  should  he 
say  that  ?  I — burn  her  letters !  Adolf  didn't  say 
that.    There  were  no  letters. 

(Adolf  enters  from  r.    He  is  staggered  at  the  sight 

of  QuALTROUGH.) 

Adolf,  we  have  had  no  letters,  have  we,  no  letters 
from  Mrs.  Sufan  ? 

Adolf.  He  was  here  this  morning.  I  forgot  to 
tell  you. 

SUFAN.  You  forgot !  But  we  were  talking — 
only  just  now.  And  you  told  Mr.  Qualtrough  that 
I  btrnit  her  letters.  {He  puts  his  hands  to  his  head.) 
What  does  it  all  mean,  Adolf  ? 

Adolf.    He's  lying.    There  were  no  letters. 

Qualtrough.  You  scoundrel !  This  morning  you 
said 

Sufan  {interrupting).  Bonny,  has  she  had  no 
letters  from  me  ? 

Qualtrough.  Not  one !  That  man  has  been 
tricking  you.  I  gave  him  a  letter  from  her  this 
morning.    Have  you  bad  it  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT.  Ill 


Adolf.    Oh,  Luke,  Luke,  I  swear- 


SuFAN.  You  gave  him  a  letter  from  her !  Adolf, 
give  it  to  me ! 

(Adolf  shrinks  from  him.) 

Give  me  the  letter.  {Towers  over  Adolf  in  an  awful 
fury.) 

Adolf.    Yes,  yes — it — it  'got  torn.    It — it  slipped 

my  memory — I {He  produces  the  letter  and  gives 

it  to  SUFAN.) 

SuFAN.    It  has  been  opened ! 

QuALTROUGH.    Opened ! 

SuFAN.    You  devil ! 

{He  flings  himself  upon  Adolf,  who  screams  like  a 
shot  hare.  For  a  moment  the  two  men  struggle  to- 
gether.) 

QuALTROUGH.    For  God's  sake,  not  that ! 

{He  drags  Sufan's  fingers  away  from  Adolf's  throat 
and  forces  the  big  man  into  the  chair  L.  of  table.) 

Now  {^0  Adolf)  get  away  before  you're  kiUed. 
(Adolf,  gasping,  slinks  off  r.) 

SuFAN  {trying  to  regain  his  breath).  Oh,  bonny, 
bonny,  bonny !  I  trusted  him.  I  trusted  him.  I 
was  mad.  Of  course  he  hated  her.  But  I  never 
thought  he  would  have  done  this.  The  beast !  The 
crazy,  fanatical  beast ! 

QuALTROUGH.    Be  quiet  for  a  bit  and  rest  yourself. 

SuFAN.  Yes,  bonny,  I'm  too  old  for  that  game. 
At  your  age  I'd  have  killed  him. 

QuALTROUGH.    Read  the  letter. 

(SuFAN  does  so.    He  is  deeply  moved.    He  rests  his 
head  in  his  hands.) 

Let  me  get  you  some  brandy? 
SuFAN.    No,  no,  bonny.    Let  me  be.    I'll  be  all 


lis  ADVERTISEMENT. 

right.  It  was  the  exertion.  Breath,  you  know, 
breath.  Wait  till  you're  my  age.  The  old  Staminal 
couldn't  aire  that.  .  .  .  She'll  come  to  me,  bonny. 
She'll  come  to  me.  Oh,  God  be  thanked.  Bonny, 
perhaps,  perhaps  I  should  go  to  her. 

QuALTROUGH.  She  would  prefer  to  come  to  you. 
Tell  me,  how  long  is  it  since  you  asked  her  to  come 
back? 

SuFAN.  How  long  ?  I  have  written  often,  bonny 
— I  don't  know  how  many  times. 

QuALTROUGH.  And  that  devil  evidently  destroyed 
every  letter.  By  Jove,  you  must  have  suffered  as 
much  as  she. 

SuFAN.  Suffered  ?  Yes.  But  I  don't  want  any 
pity.  I'm  a  Jew,  bonny.  I  married  a  Christian 
woman.  That  was  a  mistake.  It  was  too  big  a 
gamble.  Both  our  lives  were  wrecked.  I'm  old 
now.  One  mustn't  look  back  on  the  mistakes.  When 
the  stream  nears  the  sea  its  early  courses  don't  mat- 
ter. I  want  to  be  by  her  side  for  the  rest  of  my  few 
days.  She  has  forgiven  me  and  you  will  tell  her  that 
I  forgave  her  long  ago.  Once  I  thought  I  would 
never  forgive.  But  being  lonely — and  seeing  death 
in  the  distance,  as  you  do  when  you're  lonely — makes 
a  big'difference.  Tell  her  it  all  didn't  happen.  That's 
it.  Nothing  of  it  happened.  She  will  like  this  little 
house. 

QuALTROUGH.  Good-bye,  Sufan.  She  will  come 
to  you. 

SuFAN.    Soon  ? 

QuALTROUGH.  Soon,  old  friend,  very  soon.  {He 
goes  up  steps  to  French  windows.) 

Sufan  (rising).  That's  right.  Ask  her  to  come 
to  me  here.  It's  the  autumn,  bonny.  Tell  her  that 
we  must  prepare  for  the  winter.  Tell  her  that  the 
trees  have  the  last  colour  of  all.  My  hair  has  the 
last  colour  of  all.  See  it,  (He  chuckles  rather  patheti- 
cally.) Sufan 's  Scalp  Cream  no  good  for  that,  bonny. 
But  you  know  what  to  tell  her,  you  know. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  113 

(QuALTROUGH  goes  quietly  off  r.  through  the  French 

windows.) 

(Adolf  bursts  in  upon  him  from  r.  and  kneels  to  him.) 

Adolf.  Oh,  Luke,  Luke,  forgive  me.  Forgive 
me !  Forty  years  I've  served  you.  {He  is  almost 
gibbering  with  hysteria.)     Forty  years  ! 

SuFAN  {in  reverie).    "Your  wife,  Ellen." 

Adolf.  You  can't  turn  me  out,  Luke.  I've  been 
a  good  servant.  I  helped  you  in  the  beginning.  I 
haven't  any  money  saved,  not  a  penny,  Luke.  Not 
a  penny.  I'll  starve.  I'U  starve.  You  can't  drive 
me  into  the  streets  after  forty  years.  I'm  too  old, 
Luke.  Have  mercy  on  me,  have  mercy  on  me.  I'm 
poor  and  old,  Luke,  poor  and  old. 

SuFAN  {who  has  been  smiling  over  his  letter).  Get 
away  !    Get  away ! 

Adolf.    Luke,  Luke,  but 

SuFAN  {rising  and  shouting  angrily).  Get  away ! 
No,  stop.  {He  picks  up  his  violin  and  strokes  it. 
Then  he  takes  the  bow.)    Go  and  play  the  piano. 

Adolf.    The  piano,  sir  ! 

SuFAN.  Yes,  you  devil !  You  can't  live  much 
longer.  That's  one  consolation.  Go  and  play  the 
piano.  The  Rubinstein  Romance.  Get  along  with 
you. 

Adolf  {slinking  away  towards  the  French  windows). 
Yes,  sir.  Thank  you,  sir.  I'll — yes,  sir.  Oh  thank 
you,  sir.    Yes,  sir.    Of  course,  sir,  yes,  sir. 

{Exit  Adolf.) 

(SUFAN  sits.  He  plucks  at  his  strings,  smiling  happily. 
The  piano  music  is  heard,  played  falteringly.  Sufan 
is  about  to  play.  Now  at  the  French  windows  Mrs. 
Sufan  appears.  She  looks  grey  and  old  and  fragile. 
She  comes  towards  her  husband.) 

Sufan  {rising).    Ellen! 

{The  piano  music  goes  on.) 


114  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mrs.  Sufan  {wonderingly,  in  a  frail  voice).  Luke, 
is  it  really  you  ? 

Sufan.    How  old  you  look !    How  old  you  look ! 

Mrs.  Sufan.  And  you,  Luke.  How  untidy  you've 
become. 

(Sufan  looks  down  on  his  disordered  dress  and  smiles 
shamefacedly.) 

Sufan.  Have  I,  Ellen  ?  {She  goes  to  him  and  ties 
his  necktie  in  a  bow.) 


Curtain. 


VIEWS  OF  THE  CRITICS  ON 

"ADVERTISEMENT" 

THE  DAILY  TELEGRAPH  : 

We  may,  as  the  audience  did,  welcome  a  play  of  such 
high  ambition  and  so  much  interest. 

THE  DAILY  MAIL : 

Rich  in  topical  fun  and  not  wanting  in  dramatic  force. 
It  was  admirably  acted  and  received  with  great  favour. 
THE  DAILY  CHRONICLE  : 

The  author  has  written  a  play  which  has  the  double 
quality  of  being  quite  fresh  and  exciting. 

THE  NEWS  OF  THE  WORLD  : 

The  striking  individuality  of  the  characters,  the  freshness, 
the  snap,  and  the  irresistible  humour  of  the  whole  thing 
held  the  house  spellbound. 

THE  SUNDAY  PICTORIAL : 

In  many  respects  this  is  really  a  great  play. 

THE  WEEKLY  DISPATCH : 

Stands  out  apart  from  and  above  all  the  plays  of  the 
whole  season.     A  play  of  real  people  and  real  motives. 

THE  OBSERVER  : 

The  play  is  larger  in  conception  than  "  The  New  Sin  " 
and  better  all  round  than  "  Love — ^and  What  Then  ?  " 

THE  WESTMINSTER  GAZETTE  : 

Able,  interesting  and  challenging  and  marking  an  in- 
teresting step  and  development  of  one  of  our  most  prom- 
ising dramatists. — Mr.  E.  F.  Spence. 
THE  STAR : 

It  is  a  satiric  character  study  of  considerable  originality 
and  insight. — Mr.  William  Archer. 

YORKSHIRE  POST  : 

Mr.  Hastings  is  found  in  his  best  vein — ^as  trenchant  as 

we  found  him  in  "  The  New  Sin." 
THE  ACADEMY  : 

The  boldest,  the  most  debonair  and  free,  intellectually 

speaking,  of  our  younger  playwrights.    An  amusing  and 

finely  satirical  play. 
THE  ATHENiEUM  : 

The  text  of  the  play  maintains  a  high  level  throughout. 

ILLUSTRATED  SPORTING  AND  DRAMATIC : 

An  exceptionally  interesting  play  on  a  big  subject.  A 
play  simply  and  naturally  written. 

DAILY  GRAPHIC: 

An  extraordinarily  interesting  piece  of  work.  The  writ- 
ing is  crisp,  neat  and  up-to-date,  for  here  is  the  most 
lively  and  most  modern  of  our  dramatists. 


Ho 


Butler  &  Taniiei  Frome  and  London 


38546 


REGIONAL  LlBRARv  FACiLiTf 


A    000  678  052 


